


The Lone Wolf

by weathers



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: "two bros chillin in hell literally five feet apart cuz lucifer said so", Action/Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Alastor is Bad at Feelings (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor is in Hell for a Reason (Hazbin Hotel), Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angel Dust in Drag (Hazbin Hotel), Angel Dust-Typical Sexual Content (Hazbin Hotel), Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Asexual Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Attempt at Humor, Backstory, Bad Parenting, Blood and Gore, Brotp, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Analysis, Character Study, Charlie & Vaggie uprooting the elitist society that is hell, Child Abuse, Contracts, Drug Use, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Everyone Is Gay, F/M, Haircuts, Handcuffed Together, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Human Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Husk is So Done (Hazbin Hotel), M/M, Murder, On the Run, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Poor Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Self-Discovery, Self-Esteem Issues, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Soul Bond, and everyone needs therapy, disguises!, the nine circles of hell, unpacking a lot of shit so strap in folks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:20:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23065381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weathers/pseuds/weathers
Summary: Alastor had been sponsoring the Hazbin Hotel for a year now.A year was a mere blink of an eye for the King of Hell.But according to Lucifer, one year was one year too long for someone like Al– no, forAlastorto be snooping around one specific place without wreaking absolute carnage.Lucifer wasn't willing to risk another day and wanted to make a final move that would end Alastor's fun forgood.Hence, Alastor wakes up to find that he's no longer in the Hotel, rather, he's been thrown into the Ninth District of Hell, the farthest city from the Hotel.To make matters worse, his soul is somehow attached to Angel Dust and they can't physically separate any more thanfour feet, eleven inches...A weakened Alastor and off-his-usual-high Angel Dust need to traverse the other perilous eight districts of Hell in order to get all the way back to the city they call home while avoiding the overlords, deathtraps, and their buried, forgotten pasts along the way.Who knows? Maybe they'll learn a thing or two about each other along the way.Or, most likely, they'll be the death of one another, in more ways than one.
Relationships: Alastor & Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor/Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Charlie Magne/Vaggie
Comments: 36
Kudos: 250





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _This is going to be very entertaining!_
> 
> For Lucifer, that is.

What the _fuck_ was he doing?

Even a blind person could see what Alastor was trying to do. 

He just couldn't understand what was taking him so bloody long.

Granted, one year wasn't long at all, but when it came to Alastor? One whole year with not a single slaughter (of a hotel occupant) to account for? Yes, that was very concerning indeed. 

After observing the demon for the last several decades, Lucifer had grown accustomed to the erratic behavior of the radio overlord. 

The man was purely driven out of a strong need for attention and a fear of boredom. Contrary to what one might imagine, this led to a relatively predictable sequence of how the demon lived his life. Whenever Alastor grew bored, he either busied himself by becoming enamored with some frivolous project or broadcasting his latest murder spree. 

That was the pattern that Alastor lived by. 

Lucifer couldn't blame him, it really was a boring afterlife. 

So boring in fact that Lucifer had almost grown comfortable enough to know that Alastor wasn't ever going to able to touch him. At least, not for a very, very long time. 

Then one day, Lucifer's gullible bastard of a daughter opened that hotel of hers and he was immediately shaken out of his comfort zone. 

Charlotte was always so naive and constantly radiated with cavity-inducing positivity; he had seen to it himself, keeping her within the confines of his castle, feeding her filtered information about the world around her in hopes that he could mold her into the perfect heir. 

He just didn't anticipate her to become _hopeful_ for these irredeemable sinners.

It didn't take him long to realize that his attempt to create an heir had backfired, _horribly,_ and this grand opening of her "Happy Hotel" was the icing on a cake that was ready to detonate and destroy everything he had created. 

Lucifer always kept a shrivel of faith that Charlotte would come to her senses, but this obliterated any last hope he had for her. 

While Charlotte was so concerned with the hotel failing, she failed to see the true consequences of what could happen when the hotel flopped. 

She literally sold herself out on live TV. 

She might as well have had a sign slung around her choke-able neck that read, “Free invitation to threaten my dad's throne!” 

If it weren't for his wife, he'd dispose of Charlotte with the snap of his fingers. He brought her into this world, he had the power to take her out of it. However, she was the Princess of Hell, and like anything in Hell, there were consequences to everything... consequences that Lucifer wasn't willing to deal with just yet. 

But now, thanks to his mistake of a daughter, he had to be on his toes 24/7. For someone like him to be on his toes 24/7 for a year now with no leads in sight made Lucifer _upset._ Lucifer loathed being upset.

At the end of the day, with this hotel and everything seeming so chummy over there, Alastor was a bigger threat than ever, and Lucifer couldn't take any chances when it came to someone being too close to overthrowing him. 

Lucifer wasn't interested in observing the overlord anymore. 

No, Lucifer had to hit him once and hit him _hard._

He could not launch a physical attack on him right now, with him being in such close proximity to Charlotte. Lucifer was aware that the radio demon was privy to such knowledge about the real value of his daughter.

And he couldn't very well just move Charlotte away, with her being the Princess of Hell and all of _that._ No, that certainly won't do.

Lucifer had to get Alastor out of the way. Remove him from the equation to the best of his ability before going in for the kill.

However, it should be known that simply moving a demon's body and soul to another location was impossible under certain circumstances.

Such was the case with Alastor (or otherwise Lucifer would have disposed of him long before). 

Lucifer held no claim over one specific demon. He could not control them to the extent he needed for Alastor by the snap of his fingers (like he could do with practically anything else), all because of the Contract System. 

In Hell, all sinners and hellborns had their own contract. Contracts were a physical form of their very essence of life. That's why handing over your contract to a fellow demon was an immense deal and not to be trifled with. You were giving full permission to have the other occupant of your deal do whatever they pleased as they held your life in their hands. However, the benefit of handing over your freedom was the Law of Protection. With the exception of Exterminations, a demon could not be killed by another demon. Their contract, their _life,_ was owned by someone else, and that granted the contracted demon ultimate defense against critical harm. 

Diversely, if a demon had not sold their contract to another, they were free people. With their own contract in their possession, not a single other demon could toy with their freedom. They had complete bodily and soul autonomy. Not even Lucifer could touch them. As the King of Hell, Lucifer could very easily force any demon to do whatever he pleased, such as _making_ them give over their contract to him so he could do whatever he desired, but for this situation, that approach would not work with Alastor (with Charlotte being so close...). 

Without Alastor's contract, he couldn't send the demon anywhere. 

But things were different now; Alastor was being _unpredictable._

And when someone altered their course of action after treading the same road for so long, bumps were inevitable. That meant that there had to be _something._ Some _loophole._ Some _mistake_ that even Alastor overlooked.

But again, Lucifer could not touch the demon's soul without his contract, and he couldn't go after Alastor because of Charlotte, and Charlotte had to stay. 

Lucifer needed a _door-holder_. A _link_. Some way to connect to Alastor's contract without necessarily touching it. 

What Lucifer needed was a _soul-binding_ contract. 

And for the first time in a year, Lucifer felt back at ease. 

Soul-binding contracts weren't terribly complex, but like many systems, a checklist needed to be filled out, and up until now, Alastor never complemented that checklist. 

In order for a soul-binding contract to be formed, the two souls not only had to be mentally aware of each other, but physically aware. The mind and body had to be acquainted. 

Alastor never stayed in one place long enough for a connection like that to be born. 

But now? 

Residing in a confined building for a year with three other consistent souls? 

Alastor had no idea what he had gotten himself into.

Charlotte was obviously out of the equation. A ridiculous notion to even consider for reasons he did not need to humor a third time.

Perhaps her paranoid girlfriend? That certainly would be amusing. Lucifer was all-seeing to limited extents (watching over _all_ of Hell was a grueling task) and it was no secret that Alastor and Vaggie couldn't stand each other's guts. Yes, she would be the best candidate for the task, if not for the fact that she too posed the same exact problem as Alastor. She was close to Charlotte; even closer, as a matter of fact. 

Alastor's little lackeys were no good as their contracts were already under Alastor's possession. 

That left one last demon: the infamous courtesan Angel Dust.

Lucifer's eyes burned with hellfire and a painful grin split across his face, his expression drunk with giddiness. 

If there was one demon Alastor couldn't stand more than him or his daughter's plaything, it was that spider wench. 

And that spider wench just so happened to have his contract under the 'protection' of another equally easily malleable demon. 

* * *

“Love what you've done with the place, classy as ever.”

Valentino nearly fell off the desk he was being plowed into by the two strumpets that were grinding against his abdomen like their lives depended on it (they probably did). 

“Fuck–” The overlord eloquently exclaimed, shooing the whores off. Two bodyguards escorted them out, following them in suit and locking the grand doors behind them, leaving the two demons in privacy. 

In the blink of an eye, Valentino's fur coat adorned his body and a playful smirk rested upon his mussed-up lips. Nevertheless, Lucifer could easily see the fear that blossomed behind those tacky rose-tinted glasses. 

“Your Highness, do make yourself comfortable,” Valentino greeted suavely (as if he hadn't been intruded upon in the most inopportune moment), gesturing to the many extravagantly plush love-seats that littered the room. 

“Don't mind if I do!” 

With an elegant twirl, Lucifer sat down as if he were sitting at his throne. 

The two locked eyes, sizing each other up.

Valentino ground his molars through his faux smile, thank God himself that he was already profusely sweating. He had never seen the King of Hell in the flesh, and he was perfectly fine living out his afterlife without ever having to. In all his time in Hell, Valentino had never heard of the King himself paying visits like this. Had he done something to anger him? If so, there was nothing that could save him now. If there really was a God, he would repent right here and now if it meant he would be spared from whatever Lucifer had in store for him. 

Valentino swallowed the cough bubbling in his chest. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” He forced out.

It made Lucifer absolutely jovial to revel in the utter fear that struck down demons of all shapes and sizes whenever he graced them with his presence (a rare occasion, but one he entertained every so often). However, for the first time in a very long while, he was going to make an honest deal that didn't fuck over his partner in any way. He had no interest in what else Valentino had to offer, and had no desire to corrupt what the demon already had. The overlord's business was under his wife's domain after all, and to usurp the overlord would cause a rift in the balance of power. A rift that caused drama throughout each corner of Hell, drama that Lucifer couldn't be bothered with. 

“My good man, I am here to offer you a spectacular deal!”

“Oh?” Valentino drawled, interest and wariness reflected in the way his shoulders tensed at the sound of a deal. 

“You see, I have found myself in quite the predicament this last year and I have finally come to an ultimatum. You of all demons would sympathize with feeling horribly dissatisfied, am I not mistaken?”

“Naturally, your highness.” 

“You are the solution to my problem! The cure to my ailment! It truly is your lucky day, Valentino. I really must thank you– oh gracious, I'm getting ahead of myself!” One glance and Lucifer could see Valentino ruffle under the indirect praise.

“It would be my pleasure to offer my services,” the overlord cooed. 

“Splendid! You see, I am in desperate need of one of your client's contracts. Now, I understand that this client is very _special_ to you, but I will make it well worth your expense.”

“Do continue.” _So far, so good,_ Valentino thought to himself. 

“I require Angel Dust's contract.”

Valentino's eyebrows shot up in shock, ecstatic beyond words that Lucifer didn't want anything of _him._ This would certainly put a major dent in his business, if Lucifer didn't offer him anything of equal value in exchange (regardless, Valentino wasn't stupid enough to ask Lucifer for more if he wasn't satisfied with what was offered). 

Lucifer continued, “In exchange, I will hand over my wife's _finest_ incubi and sucubi.”

Valentino couldn't stop the pleasurable gasp that escaped from his lungs. That certainly was keeping up his end of the deal. An incubi or a sucubi alone were enough to wet panties a mile away, but _both_ of the _finest_ from the _Queen_ herself? They were worth _far_ more than a _thousand_ Angel Dusts'! He squinted, waiting for the King to continue. With a deal like this, there _had_ to be a catch. 

“I know what you must be thinking, and I give you my word that I do not have any ulterior motives. I am not even going to request this to be official and do it on a handshake. This step is a mere means to a glorious end for me, and you can rest assure that you won't have to hear from me about this deal ever again. To put it simply, I have no further desire in you beyond Angel Dust's contract.”

No matter what the _Devil_ said, there was _always_ a chance that he would go back on his word. Nobody could stop him from doing whatever he wanted, no matter what he promised. Nonetheless, if Valentino didn't hand over Angel Dust's contract, then he would be _definitely_ writing his own death sentence. No matter, he had no need for that lanky whore anymore anyways, not ever since he hunkered down in that fucking hotel and spent less time at the studio... 

Valentino rolled his shoulders back and smirked, a white envelope with pink spots materializing in his hand in a flurry of rose glitter and dust. With the flourish of his hand, Valentino sent the envelope over to Lucifer, the package enveloped in a fiery blaze the moment the Devil clasped his clawed hand around the base. 

The envelope dissolved into ashes, and Lucifer stood up from the seat. 

“Expect your end of the deal to be delivered within a fortnight! Have a wonderful day!”

With a toothy grin and swish of his coat, he was gone in a blinding blaze of hellfire. 

When the last ember flickered out, Valentino collapsed to the floor. 

_"Bring me that bitch who likes all the fucking kinks! Oh, and the hardest liquor while you're at it too!"_

* * *

Lucifer had honestly expected the spider's contract to be more well-endowed (for a lack of better terms) than _this._

It seems he was refreshingly mistaken. 

The envelope consisted of a single sheet of parchment that was home to a few lines of crabbed calligraphy. It began with the basic premises of any contract; full name, breed of demon, age and time of death, residence, etc. The second and final section of the parchment consisted of the current affiliation and abiding rules to whom the contract was in possession of. 

Typically, this area of any contract was as detailed and elaborate as possible, filled to the brim with reworded yet repeated and redundant sentences in order to ensure that no loopholes could be found. Lucifer had witnessed such contracts, and he wasn't being hyperbolic when he declared some of them could fill a room.

On the other hand, Angel Dust's contract?

> _Must obey Valentino_

The statement was so incredibly and alarmingly ambiguous that he wasn't sure who's impotence it reflected poorly on the most, Valentino or Angel Dust. 

There was no list of repercussions if Angel Dust _were_ to disobey Valentino, and the contract didn't specify that Angel Dust had to obey Valentino _all the time,_ among quite a few other things.

Lucifer deduced that there were two distinct reasons to why this was the case. 

Like anything in life (and death), every action triggered a reaction. Every decision had a consequence. Every vice had a side-effect. 

While a more detailed contract made it difficult for the contracted demon to break free from their deal, it made it equally difficult for the occupant of said contract to maintain it. 

Valentino was by far one of the laziest demons Lucifer ever had the displeasure of encountering. The overlord was a true politician, expending the helpless and desperate and getting double in return. Lust was a greedy, gluttonous virtue that was blessedly abundant down in Hell, and everyone was itching for a fix. His work was profitable for his plethora of clients and no one was interested in butchering the harmless owner of the Porn Studio. It made Valentino soft, but he could afford to be. 

He could very easily see Valentino not wanting to bother with the hassle that came with being responsible for such a contract. 

The only other logical reason Valentino would even consider (let alone have faith in) banking Angel Dust's loyalty on a single, incredibly vague demand was that the spider himself had nothing better to do than to obey the pimp. 

The idea wasn't entirely preposterous. In the several decades the spider had been in Hell, Angel Dust had made quite the name for himself. He had a very generous deal going for him and it made sense that he had no motivation to seek out alternative options outside of his niche. There was also the very enticing offer of ultimate protection that was guaranteed with signing himself off to Valentino. By the looks of it, Angel Dust was living his best afterlife. 

_But not anymore!_

Angel Dust belonged to Lucifer now. 

With the snap of his fingers, Angel Dust's contract was erased (the only remaining features being the basic premises), and a gold quill burned into existence, ready to scrawl down whatever Lucifer desired. 

Not wasting another second, Lucifer wrote down the first decree:

> _Soul bound to the Overlord Demon Alastor (no power in Hell can break the bond)._

With those words, the only way for the soul bond to be relinquished was if Lucifer destroyed the contract, otherwise even he could not hope to terminate the bond. As the quill punched in the final period, a string of hellfire was rocketed into the air. In just a minute or so, Alastor literally wouldn't know what hit him. 

> _Any form of direct or indirect contact with Charlotte Magne and other immediate or known affiliates is impossible._

Lucifer couldn't have Charlotte or any of her delinquents discover the whereabouts or attempt to aid the overlord, now could he?

> _Cannot go beyond the boundaries of the Ninth District._

And for the cherry on top that sealed the deal... 

> _Physical distance cannot exceed four feet, eleven inches._

With Angel Dust being unable to escape the Ninth District with Alastor in tow (Lucifer gave himself a pat on the back for his petty cleverness), the overlord couldn't leave the district boundaries as well.

The Ninth District was a cold, bitter place where demons did absolutely nothing but try and distract themselves from the freezing temperatures and unpredictable blizzards that forever tormented the wasteland. The city was almost a ghost-town. It was the closest thing to actual death.

And death after Hell? 

It was the only thing Lucifer feared... a fate which would become a possibility if he did not dispose of the radio demon.

Once the two demons were trapped in the Ninth District, Lucifer would watch the two squirm for a _glorious_ yet brief moment or two before swooping in and finishing the job himself. 

As the King of Hell, it was his sworn duty to protect and do no harm to the ancient land that stood as long as he did, but it would only take the destruction of Angel Dust's contract (paradoxical things they were, even Lucifer couldn't kill Angel Dust whilst the contract remained intact) and a quick flash of hellfire and Alastor (along with the spider slut; a byproduct to what would happen if his soul-mate were to perish) would be subjected to the fate that Lucifer no longer had to trouble his thoughts with. 

Checking the list twice, Lucifer finally felt satisfied. 

There was no changing the contract once it was sealed, but there was no need to make it any more complicated. 

In just a few moments, Hell would be free of the radio demon at last. 

Lucifer would be free of the radio demon at last. 

In the words of his dearly soon-departed friend: _This is going to be very entertaining!_


	2. Hellfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hellfire reeks, and so do the effects of booze.

With his bust bursting with money, Angel Dust gave one final smooch to his client before stepping out of the car, working his long limbs to accentuate his curves as he clambered out of the cramped seat. 

“You know how to reach me,” Angel crooned, waving the demon farewell. 

Once the demon snapped out of his ogling stupor, he gunned the engine and sped off into the distance. As the car vanished over the horizon, Angel wiped the sultry smile off his face and let out a frustrated growl.

The session was _almost_ not worth the time and money. The asshole was pushing and pulling in all the wrong areas– shame his stash of ecstasy didn't last him the full night, maybe a good bubble bath with Fat Nuggets would bring him down. Not that Angel couldn't take a rough fuck, he just lavished in feeling at peak performance at all times.

Looking around, Angel slumped over and let out another groan of annoyance. _The fucker didn't even drop him off where he had requested._

Ever since Charlie's grand opening of her hotel, demons steered clear from the premises of where the institution was constructed upon. Angel was willing to bet his entire monthly shillings and then some that this area was the least populated area in all of Hell. Not a single soul wanted any association with the Happy Hotel. _Willingly_ , at least. Alastor had managed to wrangle a straggler or two by the persuasion of free rent and plentiful space (Charlie _strongly_ prohibited Alastor using... _other methods_ ). Angel didn't judge, after all, he was one of them.

At least, _at first_ he was.

Angel shook his head, he was grouchy and sleep deprived. His mind went _places_ when he was grouchy and sleep deprived. On top of that, he was a good fifteen minute walk away from the hotel. He _really_ didn't feel like walking, but he _really_ didn't want to deal with anyone else (even for a ride), and he _really_ wanted that bath. Considering his options, it wasn't like he had much of a choice.

Sauntering down to the hotel like he were on a runway it was then.

Chest puffed out, back arched, hips swaying, Angel pressed forward.

_God, he hated his fucking job._

_No, that wasn't true._

Despite its reputation (and _his_ reputation), Angel loved his job. The sex, the smells, the sounds, it was his heaven. Even Cherri couldn’t fathom his passion for such a ‘distasteful’ profession. The job itself was almost like a drug—he could never get enough and he was absolutely addicted to it. He was _desperate_ for it. After being unable to embrace his true identity in life, you were damn sure he was going to make the most of it in Hell. It was the only place where this side to him was encouraged, and he reveled in it. Angel was living the best of both worlds; he didn't need anything in moderation, and nobody could tell him what he could and couldn't do anymore.

_No, that wasn't true either._

Angel Dust was forever in debt to Valentino; he was freshly fallen, alone, scared shitless because _Hell existed_ , and was in desperate need of shelter in order to hide from whatever the fuck an Execution was. Val took him under his wing, took one good look at him, and offered him a job. Angel didn't think twice and practically tossed his contract right over. Hindsight, it wasn't a bad deal compared to the majority. _But they didn't know. No one knew_. There were always bad parts to a job, but his 'bad parts' of the job were almost enough to give Angel the courage to demand liberation from Val and get the fuck out of there (and that was saying a lot from a person who was notorious for being _tolerant)_. 

However, Valentino was an overlord; it was an unspoken rule that one didn’t say “no” to an overlord. Many assumed Valentino was an overlord who got by on money and slave-labor alone, but Angel knew firsthand that Valentino was not to be underestimated. The pimp worked that perception like a charm and would quite literally back-stab any ignorant fool who fell for it a little too much. 

So, Angel couldn't leave. He could _never_ leave.

That's why it was always a poor decision to allow himself to indulge in his ever-growing disdain towards his job. Clearly, thinking too much was dangerous for the likes of him. Everything was better if he just acted like the dumb slut and fucking whore he was supposed to be.

_Curse that fucking client for dumping him so far from his destination, and curse himself for not bringing enough ecstasy._

Angel realized he had been staring holes into the ground as he furiously made his way down the street. He finally glanced up to find that he had cat-walked right to the hotel in record-breaking time.

_Hallelujah, something finally went right today–_

Out of nowhere, a ring of fire erupted around Angel. 

Angel couldn't hold back a yell as he tripped back in shock, gasping as he felt himself fall directly towards the flames. It had happened so suddenly that there was no time to react, Angel could only brace himself for the impact. As his back hit the ground, the flames gravitated towards him and encompassed his body before being absorbed into his figure. It was blink and you'll miss it, but Angel had kept one of his many eyes open out of morbid curiosity and was stunned into silence by the bizarre attack. 

He had been expecting pain, but none came. When the flames came into contact with his body, it felt more like he had stepped under a harsh light; sharp and so bright that it was as if he were transparent. The sweltering, unavoidable heat that accompanied a blaze was completely absent. 

Angel patted his body down, he knew what he saw. Those were flames of a fire and he fell directly in them and came out with not a single burn on his body. And those flames didn’t just flicker out, they went _inside_ him (had the circumstances been any different, he would have made a sex joke). His body soaked in the flames smoother than Husk downing a White Russian. 

_He must have triggered some trap left behind from a turf war._.. or he was far more sleep deprived than he had originally believed. 

Angel heaved himself up. He had been half expecting some sort of after-effect to ignite at this time, but nothing happened. He was fine. He surely _felt_ fine... but that fact barely managed to ease his troubles. 

This was Angel's second Execution during his residence at the Hotel, and suffice it to say that it didn't make any sense for a trap to be set all the way out here. No one was fighting over Charlie's little square of land, so it really was the only area that didn't have to bear witness to the destructive havoc of a turf war. Thus, it was incredibly odd for a turf trap to be out here on its lonesome, simply biding under the earth until someone random would finally cross paths with it. 

Furthermore, Angel had never seen a fire of that color before. Of course, red fire wasn't anything new, _but not like this._ The shade of red was an unwavering–from the root to the tip–crimson ruby; as blood red as the ripest of apples. It had a haunting beauty to it. The gorgeous color was enchanting, but somehow fear inducing. It was a predator at the top of the food chain, and anything else was meek prey. It looked as if the fire could consume anything in the blink of an eye without remorse. 

As he tried to steady his frazzled thoughts, Angel gulped down a large breath of oxygen and cringed as he caught a whiff of something garish and unholy wafting through the air. _What the fuck was that smell?_ In simple words, it was by far the _worst_ thing Angel had ever smelled. He was already feeling nauseous from the aftershock, but this made Angel have to swallow down bile that involuntarily forced its way up his throat. His nostrils flared with every inhale and caused his eyes to water immediately. 

Angel ducked his head and buried it into his arms, attempting to mask the scent. He picked up his pace, going into a full-on sprint as he crossed the street and crashed into the front doors of the hotel. He hastily opened the doors and slammed them quickly behind him. 

There was one preposterous idea that Angel's paranoid conscious supplied: _The trap wasn't random, it was targeted specifically for him._ And the more Angel thought, the more he recalled that it seemed like he didn't trigger anything at all, the fire came to life out of pure will. Almost as if someone had conjured it. But why him? And why now, like that? Not a lot of demons were out for his blood (just his dick). Sir Pentious was a valid candidate, except Pentious didn't dabble in pyrokinesis and the pompous serpent loved nothing more than to gloat in the face of his victims. If he did say so himself, Angel couldn't procure who else would hold a grudge against him.

_What if it were meant for one of the others?_

It could have been meant for Charlie, but the only reason the girl hadn't been turned into an angel's offering yet was because going after her was suicidal. With Lucifer, Lilith, and Alastor at her side, no one in their right mind would try to harm her.

Vaggie was highly unlikely, Angel was confident that the bitch didn't know anyone else outside the hotel walls.

That only left one other demon: _Alastor._

Angel didn't think it was possible for the pit in his stomach to sink lower. Not that he cared about the fucker, it just worried him that _it made sense._

Angel was way in over his head. He was too tired for this shit, but if his hunch was correct, he should probably warn Alastor. 

But it was fucking _Alastor..._

Too bad, the overlord would have to wait a night because that bath was just calling out Angel's name and Fat Nuggets needed to be fed, and taken out for a walk, and on top of all that, Angel needed some fucking sleep, but not before a shot of hard liquor or two... 

Who ever said that the night still wasn't young at two in the morning? 

Husk wasn't manning the bar tonight, so that meant finders keepers. Angel easily vaulted over the bar and greedily scoured the shelves. The shelves were oddly empty, but thank the actual Heavens that nobody had claimed what he was looking for. Swiping two bottles, he hopped over the counter once more, only to be stopped dead in his tracks by the chilling voice of the one person he didn't need to run into tonight. 

_“And where do you think you're going, my effeminate fellow?”_

* * *

The sudden crash of the front door opening had Alastor sitting erect, lips arching up from their lowered state to show off his razor sharp teeth. 

Alastor's eyes twitched when they fell upon the occupant who had so rudely disrupted him. 

Hate was a strong word to use on Angel Dust, given their current status of their acquaintanceship, but he wasn't in the mood to deal with the harlot's eccentric behavior tonight. 

With luck, Angel would walk right by him and not– 

_Nope, he was walking right over towards the bar._

It was late and Alastor was beginning to catch a nasty headache anyways, it was due time he retired for the night.

However, as Angel Dust came closer, Alastor's ears pressed back against his head and his shoulders hunched in feral objection. Alastor may have been a bit drunk, but he knew that smell anywhere.

Many decades ago, he had the privilege of coming across it one invidious evening, when he was standing face-to-face with the King of Hell himself. The smell of hellfire that seemed to encompass the Devil like moths to a light was _pungent._ It wasn't particularly rancid, for the denizens of hell had grown accustomed to the stench of death and fire, but it was strong and very _distinct._ It wasn't just the assaulting scent of smoke and heat or that the air suddenly wreaked of rotting death, but if fear had a smell (salty, enough to make your eyes water and trigger a gag reflex instantaneously), _this was it._ The burning onslaught was a slap to the face upon first encounter, before seeping into your skin and bones with no chance of removing the odor for weeks on end.

If it was anything to go by, the smell was a _warning_ , a burning beacon that screamed to the heavens that danger was present.

Now, why would Angel Dust–of all demons–smell like _danger?_

“And where do you think you're going, my effeminate fellow?”

Angel Dust stopped dead in his tracks, his fur standing on end. 

“Ya spyin' on me, Smiles? Ya like what ya see over there?”

Not taking kindly to the sexual implication, Alastor banged his glass down on the counter and stepped towards Angel in one swift motion, inches away from the front tuft of Angel Dust's hair. 

Even though the radio demon stood a good foot beneath Angel, it didn't make him any less intimidating. Even now, it took Angel strength to not cower back from the sheer magnifying presence that Alastor masterfully wielded.

“You positively reek, my friend,” Alastor deadpanned, static blaring through his vocals. 

The corners of Angel's lips dipped into a frown. Sure, that fire gave his cologne a valiant fight, but there was another contender in the ring. “I could say the same for you, Al.” 

_Alastor was fucking tipsy, like, really tipsy._ Well, that explained the empty shelves. Angel would have been scared to see what Alastor would look like if he was _his_ definition of drunk, but by the overlord's standards, he would rather be caught dead than be seen in such an abysmal state. 

“Well, I must say that your new choice of fragrance is an improvement. The stench of sex was not a goof fit for you.” Alastor knew he wasn't acting like his proper self and should really stand down before he did something he might regret, but Angel was irresistible to chaff. 

Offended because _he really didn't need this right now_ , Angel snarled, “Sorry the sweet stench of my _hard_ work is too much for a prude like you, toots. I suggest ya multiply your damn five-foot rule by fucking fifty and back the fuck off.”

Alastor wasn't egotistical in the sense that he had no need to chatter about his accomplishments when simply torturing an old coot got the job done far more effectively ("show, don't tell, my dear!" He had exhibited to Charlie one day), but his narcissistic tendencies did give his pride more bang for its buck. And he, an overlord that was more drunk than he cared to admit, was not going to tolerate the uneducated, degrading words of _Angel Dust._

“It's in your best interest that you speak to me nicely, darling. And we've discussed this, I'd greatly appreciate it if you dropped the pet names.”

“Eh, I love a good pet name, _darling._ ”

Barely any light filtered through the hotel at this hour, but both demon's grins gleamed with malice; bated breaths tempting the other to brave another word.

Contrariwise to what many perceived, the two demons had grown to hold genuine civility between each other over the course of a year. For public display, they even managed to quip and banter. Although unreadable undertones of ridicule and insult were par for the course if they played for too long.

Alastor was terrifying for sure, but underneath all that, the guy was fucking fun (to mess with). Due to the demon's distaste in his profession, it wasn't a secret that Alastor harbored a more personal grudge against the spider, but it was clear (for those who cared) that it was aimed more directly at the job itself, Angel Dust being a host to receive the blunt revulsion that the deer demon possessed. Angel had grown to realize that any animosity aimed towards him was to be taken with a grain of salt, Alastor had an ax to grind against _everyone._ However, Angel wasn't about to deny that Alastor intrigued him. A hard-to-get hottie? Yes _please_. After having demons flock to him far and wide for his services, Alastor was a nice change of pace. And by God himself, if Angel was a slut for anything, it was a good fucking musical number.

Alastor had to admit, he had grown to hold a semi-respectable regard for Angel Dust. Alastor couldn't recall the last time any demon had the _audacity_ to address him with such pluck. Over the course of the year, the fearless comments didn't cease, in fact, the frequency only increased. At the worst of times, the teases and vulgar attitude were too much for him and their little interaction would result in both being inches away from dishing out a good tussle. Such arguments always managed to put both of them in a sour mood until they saw each other again, neither of them willing to swallow their pride to make amends. But Alastor could handle Angel Dust. It wasn't worth getting his tailcoats in a twist and losing such an engaging source of entertainment.

The two demons took a shine to one another, and they were more than satisfied with keeping it at just that, so long as they had the freedom to not see the other's face for a good while should things go too far south.

Alastor let out a fuddled sigh. He wasn't going to get what he wanted (in a Charlie-approved way) if he enabled this childish squabble. “Why is it that you smell of hellfire?”

Nearly missing the question because Alastor was talking more _static_ than he was actual _words_ , Angel gawked, “what?”

“Please don't make me repeat myself...” Alastor muttered under his breath, voodoo symbols temporarily dancing around him, “why is it that you smell of hellfire?”

Angel Dust had heard of hellfire before, it was the most powerful force of nature throughout Hell and could only be controlled by Lucifer. 

Oh, _shit._

Was it worth telling Alastor right now? The guy was far from his superior practicality he lorded over everyone, and for once, Angel really needed advice from _that_ guy, and not this _mess_ of a man. 

To a stranger, Alastor still managed to look more put together than the average Joe. The demon had perfected poised grace to a tee, so that even if he wasn't feeling his A-game, he still had every right to turn up his nose at all the other the low-lives that infested Hell. 

However, to anyone who had the chance to observe the overlord for over a month would realize that Alastor looked like _crap_. His immaculate sense of fashion had been abandoned; his suit had wrinkles, the collar of his dress shirt was not buttoned all the way up to his Adam's Apple (where was his bow tie?), his stylized hair was astray, and most noticeably, his eyes lacked their normal luster. They were glossy from drinking too much, but Angel could it was more than that, he just didn't know what it was.

“It's the Devil's mark,” Alastor blurted out.

“I know what hellfire is,” Angel replied with a roll of his eyes.

Alastor accusingly squinted at the spider, “what are you doing with Lucifer?”

“Nothing, I swear!” 

“Not the answer I'm looking for, my dear! Unless you are suggesting that you don't smell like hellfire and the reason why you smell of rotting flesh and smoke is because you copulated with a burning corpse!” 

If Alastor didn't dial back the grating static that rang out with each word he said, Angel's ears were going to start bleeding. 

“Listen, I was coming back from my shift and I was walking and this ring of red fire came outta nowhere and then got sucked inside my body... didn't hurt or anything... but I dunno what the fuck it was about–”

Angel was firmly stopped by Alastor's clawed hand, the gesture urging him to wait.

Alastor's suspicions were confirmed. It took a liar to spot a liar, and Angel wasn't lying. Even though the world was a little blurry, the spider's ability to lie through his teeth was embarrassingly poor (the arachnid was far too _expressive_ for his own good). At the very least, Angel had not _voluntarily_ involved himself with Lucifer. But there was no mistaking it. Alastor would never forget that smell, and it was coming off of Angel in tidal waves. Only issue was that Alastor didn't know what it all meant either, and he very well couldn't go about trying to figure it out in his condition at the moment. 

With a defeated scowl, Alastor shooed Angel off, “we will continue this conversation first thing tomorrow morning. You are dismissed.”

As Alastor began to walk–more like hobble–past him, Angel called out, “wait, shouldn't we address this now? Like, this is _Lucifer_ we're talking about!” 

“Precisely, and there's nothing _you_ can do about it.”

“That's the thing, sugar, I don't think it's about _me–_ ”

Nothing could have prepared either men for the sphere of red fire that blasted through the entrance, whizzing past Alastor and colliding with Angel, hurtling his unsuspecting body across the room. 

Just before Angel was sent crashing into the nearest wall, the fire swallowed the demon whole and flickered out of existence... _along with Angel._

Alastor raised his eyebrows, his smile placid as always. He would have come to the conclusion that he indeed was too drunk for his own good if it were not for the spell of darkness and insurmountable heat that knocked him out before he hit the floor. 

* * *

His muscles ached terribly and his head was pulsing.

 _Curses,_ he really shouldn't have drank so much. 

What a horrid way to start the day.

Moreover, leave it to Vagatha to freeze the occupants of the establishment to death.

It was so impossibly cold, it made Alastor want to keep his eyes shut and stay put in a pathetic attempt to shield himself from the wretched temperature. Alastor absentmindedly reached for his covers, only for his hands to come up soaked with frigid water and no blanket. It occurred to him that ice-cold water was slowly seeping into his clothes from where he slept.

The panic beginning to settle in Alastor's chest combated the pounding headache that prevented him from thinking clearly.

Alastor struggled to peel his eyes open. Something was stuck to his eyelashes. His fingers made a feeble attempt to remove the substance. His hands came away with... _was that frost?_

Alastor propped himself up as his pupils focused on the ground he was lying upon.

Gray, ashen and wet. Endless miles of maroon sky and blank, colorless land. Storm clouds circled above and a dry, bitter wind cradled his skin.

Against the protest of his sore muscles, Alastor forced himself to stand up. His shuddering breaths turning into puffs of smoke the second they passed his lips. He folded his arms across his chest tightly, summoning a fur trench coat to replace his wet suit. As if the harsh weather were mocking him, the winds only blew harder and the air seemed to drop even lower.

Demons couldn't dream, but this certainly wasn't a nightmare. Alastor knew what those felt like, and he regrettably acknowledged that this wasn't one. Alastor had heard of this place; a place so miserable and dark and _boring_ that even _he_ never bothered to explore what it had to offer.

Because there was nothing here that had anything to offer.

It was meant to be the closest punishment to the final death.

Alastor couldn't quite remember what occurred before he passed out, but he was indisputably aware that he had been perusing about the bar of the hotel and did _not_ wander off to this desolate wasteland.

If Alastor ground his frozen teeth together in a smile any longer, they were going to shatter.

Looking up, Alastor eyed the large splintered sign that read _'Welcome to the Ninth Realm'._

While not remembering how he ended up in the Ninth Realm was irksome, he had no interest in finding answers right now as his hungover state did not find the weather agreeable in the least bit. He would much prefer to sleep through his hangover in a much tolerable climate, and then once he was feeling like his usual self, go kill the idiot who thought this _prank_ was funny. 

_And get away from that putrid odor..._

Alastor's skin crawled when a sensual yawn came from directly behind him. 

How gravely mistaken he was to believe that his situation couldn't get any worse. 

Alastor craned his neck around, and there was Angel Dust, curled up on the ground, his suit and fur soiled with filth and grime. He didn't know how, but he knew that he was _here_ because of _Angel Dust._

Pure rage blossomed through his bloodstream, a ferocious growl erupted from his throat as he bent down and violently hoisted Angel to his feet. “I ought to gut you where you stand, spider!” He roared, brutally shaking Angel awake, his nails digging into the spider's shoulders. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Meaning of what?” Angel mumbled, blearily looking at his surroundings.

“We're in the Ninth Realm, you idiot!”

Angel winced as he began to shiver in Alastor's hold. “Holy shit, it's _freezing!”_

“Deal with it,” Alastor snarled, his gnarled face inches away from Angel. Breathing the same airspace as the spider demon, Alastor recoiled; he had found the source of the smell. 

“That's hellfire.”

Angel did not look amused, “yep, sure is, buddy.”

The blatantly dull reaction of Angel caused Alastor's thoughts to stir. “This is about last night, isn't it?”

“Oh,” Angel sardonically whined, “startin' to come back to ya now, is it?” He waited for Alastor to continue, but the deer demon simply stuck his nose in the air and bared his teeth. Angel scoffed, even now Alastor held onto his dignity even if it was fucking _ridiculous_. “I came back to the hotel last night and I was telling ya that I had been attacked by what we now know was hellfire. Ya were too drunk to do anythin' at the moment so ya were gonna tuck in for the night when a fucking ball of hellfire blasted through the door and plowed right into me. Then I woke up here to ya spittin' in my face about how this is somehow my fucking fault. I don't fucking know what's going on!” 

Dealing with the situation posthaste would not have made a difference. Hellfire always managed to find its target, it was only a matter of time. Howbeit, hellfire was the least of their worries. Lucifer had made his move, and they needed to _get out of the way._

With the flourish of his wrist, Alastor's microphone manifested in his grip. “As much as I would love to leave you here as punishment,” he spoke, “I promised Charlie I'd look after the patrons of the hotel, and that unfortunately includes you.”

Without warning, Alastor's shadow leaped from the ground and swept the radio demon and Angel in a sheet of darkness. Less than a second had passed when the sheet of darkness was lifted and Alastor and Angel were thrown backwards to the ground. 

“Damn, never in my life did I think I could get ya pinned down on your back with me next to ya–”

_“Not a good time, Angel.”_

As it turned out, the duo had not gone anywhere. They remained firmly at the foot of the billboard of the realm. Alastor rose to his feet with a flippant swish of his coat and strutted past the sign, only to collide into... _something._ Hesitantly, he pressed his hands forward. The harder he pushed, the more this force pushed back, not allowing him to gain the upper-hand even for a second.

Alastor jumped back as a series of bullets paraded by his side. 

Apparently, Angel had been concealing a set of submachine guns tucked away in his third set of appendages. Angel showered an entire magazine, but the bullets were helplessly deflected as if they were peas being poured on a plate. 

“Cease that barbaric nonsense!” Alastor crowed, clutching onto his forehead (guns firing were _a lot_ louder than what was advertised to his dismay and it was not doing any favors for his hungover condition), “it's not doing any good!”

“Ya have a better idea?”

Alastor took a few sets back as a giant golden portal tore open through the ground. Black tendrils that were the size of skyscrapers rose from the pit and began to pound and slash away at the barrier. With each earth-shattering collision, the sheer power was enough to make Angel need to lower himself to the ground to maintain balance, but the tendrils were deflected back with such ease, it was as if the tendrils carried no more weight than a feather. 

It was a waste of magic, but Alastor wanted to _leave_. He raced across the land, following the barrier as far as it could go, having his magic strip and pound away all the while. Every once in a while, he tried teleporting again as if to catch the barrier off-guard; it only succeeded in dwindling his hope further.

_“Holy shit, Al, stop!”_

The tendrils retreated back underground, the portal closing with a thunderous howl.

Huffing, Alastor snapped, facing the spider again, “what is it now?”

Alastor's head cocked to the side, perplexed. 

Angel was on the ground once more, but by judging the trail that was left in his wake, it had appeared that the spider had been _dragged_ along after Alastor. 

“What the actual fuck was that?” Angel swore, struggling to get up for the third time that day, the icy climate almost besting him as they painfully gnawed away at his long limbs. “Did ya attach me to yourself or something?”

“What a _dreadful_ suggestion!” 

“Then you tell me why the minute ya started runnin', I was yanked along behind ya!” 

“Pray tell why you believe _I_ have all the answers when it was _you_ who got yourself ensnared in Lucifer's hellfire?”

At this point, Angel's body was convulsing due to the cold. His skin wasn't processing the cold anymore, just the pain. It felt like needles were being driven through his flesh, puncturing muscle and driving to the bone. His suit and high boots were meant for fashion, not function, and they were ruined with slush and sleet anyways. Moreover, his nose was crusted with blood from the icy wind and smell of hellfire assaulting him every second. And there was Alastor, standing there in a fur tench coat, bitching at him like this was all his doing and drunk off his ass for his standards. The situation was bullshit, he was mentally exhausted, and he was physically in shambles. 

Angel couldn't bottle his outrage any longer. “You're an overlord aren't ya? You've been around longer than me! This is your field of expertise, ain't it,” he glowered in a condescending tone, “how the fuck should I know a goddamn thing about Lucifer? News flash, I don't do politics, babe! And ya know what the real kicker is? We could have avoided this utter bullshit if ya put your attention towards the actual problem instead of _me_ , I get that ya don't like me but that doesn't change the fact that we're stuck here because ya were drunk and not–”

Without warning, Alastor's hand shot out and struck Angel across the face so hard that he tasted blood. 

Angel's neck cracked as his head spun to the side at such a violent speed, but he didn't miss how Alastor's head jerked to the side the moment his own hand came into contact with his face. 

“What now?” Angel whined, running his tongue over the gashes in his gums. 

Alastor slowly brought his hand to his face, dread inching over his facial features.

“It's a myth...” Alastor voiced aloud, his gaze elsewhere.

“Come again?”

“Soul-binding.” 

“And that is...?” 

Alastor's face reflected the closest thing to horror that Angel had ever seen from him. To be honest, the spider didn't even think Alastor was capable of showing emotion other than self-satisfaction and disdain towards others, so seeing the demon so bluntly allow a sliver of _'weakness_ ' to peek through his impenetrable façade, greatly perturbed Angel. 

Not to mention that Alastor had completely lost his composure and actually _hit_ him. Alastor built his entire persona around his a narcissistic aura and mastery of self-control. His charm, charisma and good looks were enough to have anyone weak in the knees and devouring whatever bullshit he fed them. Angel had seen the man absolutely obliterate others through his resolute poise and silver tongue, choosing not to stoop down to their level to win a mere quarrel. The only anger that could be seen if his buttons were pushed a little too much were eldritch symbols dancing around visible static that electrified the air. For him to actually physically _punch_ someone over a few fallacious _words_... he must have been more drunk than Angel had initially suspected.

“No time to explain, we need to leave, _now_.”

With the bang of his microphone, the head flickered to life, a short blurb from 20th century song humming out on repeat. 

Angel knew exactly what Alastor was doing, he was calling the Hotel. Back when the radio demon inserted himself as staff, he set up radios throughout every room which were designed to act as telephones. Should he ever be out running errands and needed to speak to one of the members, he would call them. This caused all the radios in every single room to ring out with a 20th century hit on repeat until someone tuned in. 

Alastor had made it very clear that someone was to answer him whenever he called. So far, everyone had abided by his request without fail throughout the year.

So it was extremely concerning when, after precisely three minutes and thirty-two seconds of the same jingle on repeat, no one had answered. 

It didn't make any sense. Charlie was normally the first to respond, only making Alastor wait seconds before answering him in a manner in which he could practically _hear_ her smile. Niffty was a close second. Husker and Vaggie were a far third and fourth (being last resorts when no one else could get the music to _shut up_ ). Angel Dust only answered once, and Alastor made it evident that he was never to answer him again. 

Alastor's head slumped and the noise ceased.

Angel wrung his hands together, “what if Lucifer...”

“No, he wouldn't endanger Charlie.”

Alastor turned his gaze away from Angel, eyeing what would be the next realm in the far off distance. Angel looked down at his feet, shoveling gravel and muck. Neither had anything worth saying.

“So, what do we do now?”

With a heavy sigh, Alastor sat himself down on a nearby rock. “We can't very well be sitting ducks, it's in our best interest to part ways so that when Lucifer comes, we won't be as big of a target.” 

Angel's stomach lurched. Lucifer was coming, _here?_

“Clearly, this is his doing. I presume he intends to finally kill me.”

“Okay, but why am I here?”

“Your contract in under Valentino's possession, is it not?”

“Yeah... why?”

“I have reason to believe that your contract is no longer his possession. Rather, Lucifer has declared it for himself now.”

Chills ran down Angel's spine, and not from the cold. “Does this have anything to do with what ya mentioned earlier?”

“Yes, dear. I am not proficient in the art of contracts, but I reckon that through your contract, Lucifer has bound my soul to yours. He very well can't get his hands on my contract without my verbal consent, and he very well wouldn't dare approach me with Charlie so close, so he had to create a door-holder.”

“... _me._ ”

Alastor waved his had in agreement. “The worst of it being that if either of us are to suffer an injury, the other will be affected as well.”

“So that's why when you punched me, you felt something too.”

“Correct, but it does not explain why you were seemingly dragged behind me.”

“Why wouldn't it? I thought ya just said–”

“As far as I am aware, two beings with bound souls have no limit to how physically distant they are. _Unless..._ ” Alastor stood back up. “Stay where you are,” he ordered. 

He took a few steps back, only for his body to jar itself forward mid-stride for no apparent reason.

Angel let out a yelp as something in his chest suddenly lurched towards Alastor. 

The two managed to avoid bumping into one another (thankfully), but by judging Alastor's murderous look, that wasn't good enough. 

“Heavens to _Betsy..._ ” Alastor hissed with vexation dripping from his lips, his pupils flaring with static. 

Alastor pressed his microphone against Angel's chest, a maneuver the spider was well accustomed with. Angel bounced back, trying to figure out how far five feet was, but after only a couple of steps, he felt as if he were pressed up against another barrier; his chest clenched with a weight that urged him to move back in. 

“Do not move.” Alastor commanded, his microphone still resting on Angel's bust. 

After a beat of silence, Alastor swung his microphone without warning at the rock he had been sitting on, causing it to explode in a flash of red light. 

“Four feet, eleven inches... the dirty _simp!_ ” 

If anyone had Alastor's 'five-foot rule' ingrained in their muscle memory, it was Angel, and upon critical analysis, Angel admitted that he was just a _little_ too close to be five feet away from the radio demon. Due to the situation, Alastor had not berated Angel for his close proximity (as there were _far_ more crucial matters at hand), but it appeared that Lucifer intended to make Alastor's last moments on Hell utter misery. 

Alastor recomposed himself, readjusting his monocle. “He must have added this little hitch in the fine text, the _bastard._ Well, I do believe this puts a little setback on my plan to go our separate ways.” 

Angel wasn't sure what to say, but the sky spoke for him; it rumbled threateningly, the clouds darkening at a rapid pace, the wind billowing and gathering speed. Glancing up, Alastor and Angel watched as the wine colored sky bled into a vibrant carmen. The clouds bloomed with vibrant light, circling around one another, forming an eye directly above the two demons. As the great eye opened, hellfire rippled across the sky, a laugh echoing throughout the far corners of the realm. 

“It seems we have a visitor...”

Angel looked at Alastor with wild craze, his terror palpable. 

Yet the overlord's grin only stretched wider.

"Smile, my dear! It would be a rather disgraceful first impression to meet the King naked, wouldn't it?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry y'all, you have no idea how many times I had to go back and edit this chapter and I'm still not proud of it. Promise next one will be better. I really appreciate all the support you've given so far, really means a lot to me :) Please look out for yourselves and stay safe! Love you all~


	3. The King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlie has daddy issues, Vaggie hides a secret, and Husk just wants his stolen goods back.
> 
> Meanwhile, the king goes in for the kill.

“Hey, babe? You might want to take a look at this.”

A myriad of footsteps could be heard from the carpeted upper floor of the hotel, a voice ringing out to accompany the ensemble, “Oh, Vaggie! I can't seem to find Alastor anywhere! Did he happen to let you know he was heading out earlier today?”

As Charlie reached the bottom of the staircase, her focus locked onto Vaggie's hunched stance. Without a second thought, she flew over to her girlfriend, barely taking notice of the ruined rug that she tread across. 

“What's up, Vaggie?” 

Gnawing on her thumbnail, Vaggie tipped her head forward, signaling ahead. 

Charlie glanced over, recoiling at the sight she had so blatantly missed. 

“Whoa, what happened here?”

“That's what I wanted to ask you...”

Charlie and Vaggie stared at what used to be the front door of the hotel. Now, all that remained was a sizable hole in the wall, framed with blackened, splintered wood and shattered glass. The rug beneath their feet crumbled with a hint of pressure, as it had now been reduced to a charred crisp. 

Charlie walked up to the burnt wall, running her hands over the wood. 

“Charlie,” Vaggie hissed, running over immediately, “careful! It could still be hot–” Vaggie suddenly doubled back, “Oh, _god!_ What is that smell?” 

“It's hell–”

“What the _fuck_ happened here?”

Looking up, Charlie sheepishly grinned at the figure who blocked the entrance. “Hey, Husk.”

Husk snarled in acknowledgment, eyeing the door with distaste as he cautiously stepped into the hotel. With a gravelly sigh, he ran his long claws over his face. “Do I wanna know what happened here?”

“Apparently the door and Alastor are gone.” Vaggie dryly explained, tossing her hands in the air. 

“It's eight in the fucking morning and I'm too sober for this sh– _holy shit, what is that smell?”_ Husk nearly leaped away from the door frame, his fur and feathers standing on end, a deep growl sitting in the back of his throat. “Charlie, how the fuck are you not smelling that shit?”

“Oh, I smell it all right.”

“Yeah,” Vaggie echoed, “honey, what is that? It smells like rotting flesh and– _ugh!”_ Vaggie nearly gagged, waving her hands in front of her watering eyes. 

Charlie whirled around. “It's hellfire,” she confessed shamefully. 

Vaggie's eyebrows furrowed, darkening her eyes that were blown wide with apprehension. She stepped forward, placing a tender and assuring hand on Charlie's shoulder. “Babe, are you positive?” 

Charlie gingerly placed a hand on top of Vaggie's, trying to ease her righteously wary instincts through her fingertips, “Yes, it's hard to forget a smell like that. As Lucifer's daughter, I don't react the same way as normal demons.” 

“So, you're telling me,” Husk growled, making his presence known once more, “that Lucifer is behind this shit? What the fuck did we do to–” Husk clamped his jaw shut tightly, “ya know what? You ladies can find me at the bar.”

The girls laughed to themselves as Husk stomped off, listening to a sequence of colorful language that the cat didn't bother to keep at an appropriate volume. As Husk became preoccupied with his drinks and the two girls were alone together, Charlie cupped the back of Vaggie's neck and pulled her in for a kiss. 

“Not that I'm complaining,” Vaggie breathed out once they parted lips, “but what was that for?”

“Just... I don't want you to worry.” 

“Babe,” Vaggie said lovingly, running a hand through Charlie's hair, “I'm sorry, but I can't _not_ worry, after all our time together, you of all people should know that by now.”

Charlie let out a defeated sigh, “I do know, and I love you so much for that. It's just that for whatever course of action we plan to take, I need you to trust me.” 

“Of course, hun.” Vaggie pulled Charlie in for an embrace. “I'm just here to make sure you don't do something stupid,” she whispered. 

“And thank the heavens for that.”

“It's just that this isn't some normal threat, you know we have to deal with this as soon as possible–”

_“Are you fucking shitting me right now!?”_

Vaggie smacked her lips with annoyance. “What's the matter, big fella?”

“Get your asses over here and take a look.”

Begrudgingly, the two girls meandered over to the bar. 

Husk slammed his elbow down on the counter and wildly gestured to his rather empty shelves. “What's this look like to you?” 

“That you're finally deciding to go clean... er?”

“That you suck at the one job you have here?” 

“Real smart, ladies.” Husk scowled. “It means a certain spider raided my supply last night... again!”

“How do you know?” Charlie questioned. “Any demon could have just waltzed in last night and taken their fair share of liquor.”

“Hate to break it to ya, princess, but not too many demons like to stray around these parts, and they have much better luck at getting a quick fix anywhere else than here. Besides, no other sinner in all of Hell would drink that sweet liquor that stupid spider likes so much.” 

“Point taken,” Charlie admitted through squinted eyes, “but don't worry, I'm sure you'll have your stock replenished in no time!” 

“This here is honest work, sweetheart!”

“W... we don't even pay you.” 

“Exactly! So go find Alastor and talk some sense into that prick!”

“We would very much like to!” Vaggie suddenly screeched. “Husk, we can't afford dealing with your bickering right now! In case you haven't noticed, the King of Hell has sent a very clear threat to our hotel and the one guy who could provide answers isn't here right now. So either make yourself useful by helping us or scat!” 

Husk knew better than to deal with Vaggie when she was pissed off. He hadn't meant to derail the situation and prioritize his stolen goods, he just didn't like it when people messed with his shit, something that was quite a reoccurring theme throughout his long afterlife. He reached down under the counter and collected a cheap bottle of booze, screwing the cap off and flicking it across the room before taking a generous swig.

“Give Alastor a call, and if he doesn't answer, come get me or Niffty–whenever the neurotic bitch decides to arrive–kay? I'll be in the back.” 

When the cat slunk into the back of the bar, Vaggie nudged Charlie, “Come on, let's give Alastor a call.”

The two girls snuggled next to each other on the nearest sofa which was adjacent to a coffee table. A quaint, vintage radio sat atop it. It was an ancient thing, yet in prime condition. As were many of Alastor's possessions, keeping objects for prosperity over function. The hotel occupants barely had any use for the radios that were placed in every room. As per Alastor's rules, the radios were not to be touched unless for dire circumstances where it may only be used to contact him. Since Alastor was a devoted manager and always informed one of his coworkers of his whereabouts, nobody ever had the need to contact him, because Alastor always returned and everything was _fine._

But there was a first time for everything.

Charlie leaned over and turned the nob. The speaker crackled to life before it began to render a melody that filled the room with an archaic ambiance. However, the peppy tune did nothing to bring the girls out of their troublesome state. 

The couple exchanged worrisome looks as time ticked on and the song kept repeating.

“What do you think Lucifer is planning?” Vaggie said. 

“Don't know,” Charlie replied, “maybe he's finally fed up with the hotel and is sending me a message.”

“It's only been a year! Your dad's been alive for thousands upon _thousands_ of years, that can't be it.” 

“It could be, Vaggie. You know how we left things–”

“You don't need to remind me.”

“He _really_ doesn't like this thing I'm doing, you know?” 

“I can imagine, but you also told me that Lucifer doesn't attack first. He _can't,_ right?”

Charlie nodded.

“So what would possess him to literally deliver hellfire to our doorstep? He shouldn't feel the need to send such a message since we haven't even been able to get more than two patrons at this place! Much less redeem any...”

Charlie knew Vaggie well enough to know where her girlfriend was going. It wasn't a hard puzzle to solve, and what made it even worse was that her father made _no_ effort to cover his tracks. He _wanted_ her to figure it out.

“He had to have felt threatened by something... or _someone.”_

Charlie vigorously shook her head. She couldn't admit it.

“Sweetie, I think it's time we _really_ consider that–”

“No,” Charlie croaked, “I know what you're about to say.”

Vaggie eyed Charlie's balled fists. There was a definite sheen of tears coating her eyes, and if she bit any harder on her lip, she would draw blood. 

Guilt flooded through Vaggie's heart. They had discussed it before, _numerous_ times, to the point where Charlie knew what she was going to say before she even opened her mouth. Vaggie knew more than any soul in Hell that Alastor was _not_ to be trusted, no matter how his crude smile grew to be genuine, no matter how good his food was, no matter what benefits he brought to the hotel, no matter how much of a supportive figure he had become to Charlie... 

Trough experience, Vaggie knew better, because people like Alastor... 

Well, Vaggie loved Charlie more than she amused her dirty little secret.

“But he has done _nothing!_ He's been nothing but _good_ to us, Vaggie! We have _no_ right– we've _never_ had the right to deny him passage to the hotel. _Everyone_ is capable of forgiveness.” Charlie sniffled, gasping through every sentence. 

Vaggie squeezed Charlie tighter, using one hand to shield her and the other to wipe away her tears. “I know, love.” 

_“For the love of God, turn that shit off!”_

Both Charlie and Vaggie jumped, too stunned to move against Husk as he cranked off the radio.

“Husk!” Charlie cried out. 

“You've been calling him for seventeen goddamn minutes! I don't even think _he_ can stand listening to one part of a song on repeat for nearly twenty fucking minutes, _I_ sure as hell can't! Jesus, he really needs to get a voicemail instead of having the damn thing ring until someone picks up...”

_That was the first time Alastor did not answer a call._

Charlie scrunched down into the couch in defeat, tensing all her muscles in order not to cry, hiding her face in burning shame. 

“Look,” Husk spoke mildly (pity was something he reserved for Charlie in the worst of times), “I came over to tell you that I think Alastor was at the bar when Angel stole my drinks.”

“Really?” Vaggie piped.

“Yeah, between the stench of hellfire and sex,” Husk pointedly wrinkles his nose, “I'm getting Alastor's scent too. Just as fresh as the others.”

“Where does it lead?” Charlie asks, hoisting herself off the couch and wiping away at her cheeks. 

“That's the problem, it just vanishes into the scent of death and decay.”

Charlie's shoulders slump. 

“I'm sorry, kid, but here't the catch: it don't give me an answer as to why _Angel's_ scent does the same thing.”

This seemed to pique Charlie's interest right back up again. 

“I tried sniffing him out through the hotel, it ain't here. His scent just disappears the same way Alastor's does, just being masked by that fucking hellfire.” 

Charlie whipped out her phone, “I'll give him a call–”

“Way ahead of ya, sister, he didn't pick up. Had to listen to that _disgusting_ voicemail of his at least a hundred times.” Husk shuddered, his claws protracting at the gruesome thought. 

Charlie solemnly put her phone back in her pocket. “So, that means...”

“He could be... _busy?”_ Vaggie offered, her innuendo _very_ intentional.

“Or hanging out with Cherri,” Charlie hopefully added.

Vaggie snorted, “More like _hungover_ with Cherri.”

“Yeah,” Husk interjected, “I highly doubt the guy got himself involved with whatever is going on between Lucifer and Alastor. But if you want an affirmative source as to where the hell deer boy went, find Angel. He saw him last so do whatever it takes to get that bastard to talk.”

“Hey, Husk?” Charlie said.

“What?”

“Thank you.”

“Whatever, don't mention it. I'll be in the back.”

With that, Husk dragged himself away, retreating behind bottles and curtains.

“I dunno, Vaggie,” Charlie whispered once Husk was out of earshot, “it would be a lot quicker if I just confronted my dad–”

“What? Charlie, _no,_ ” Vaggie said with vehement dissent, “don't you dare ever think that way. You know that won't get you anywhere. He is a _last_ resort, you hear me?”

“But what if my dad has Alastor? What if we're wrong? What if he's... _torturing_ him or something?”

Vaggie swallowed, “Well, it's like you said,” she tried to sound encouraging, “as far as we're concerned, Alastor hasn't done anything to hurt your dad, so I think he's safe. Besides, until we know for certain where Alastor is, he can handle himself.”

“Yeah, no, you're right.” Charlie frowned, as if coming to her senses, “I'm sorry.” 

“Nothing to be sorry for, we just gotta keep our heads and take one step at a time.” 

Charlie let out a long sigh, placing one hand on her hip and the other reaching for her phone. “So,” she began hesitantly, phone in her grasp, “who's calling Cherri and who's calling the Studio?” 

“Yikes,” Vaggie winced, taking out her own phone but making no effort to turn it on.

“... Coin toss?”

Vaggie stiffly nodded, “Coin toss.”

“Well, at least Angel's probably not gotten himself into as much trouble as Alastor.”

“Never thought I'd ever hear that sentence in my entire life.”

“I know, right? In any case, I bet Angel's doing just fine.”

* * *

(Suffice it to say, things were certainly _not_ fine for Angel Dust.)

As red fire pooled in the iris of the great eye, drawing power from the space above, lightning sparked across the clouds, the booming thunder resonating with the menacing laugh that shook throughout the realm.

“You might want to take a step back,” Alastor purred, taking a few generous steps backwards himself, his unblinking eyes transfixed on the eye hovering above him, even though it had become unbearably bright.

Angel shuffled himself as close to the radio demon as he dared, shying away from the blinding light that blanketed every inch of land with red.

When it appeared that the eye had accumulated every trace of hellfire in the sky, a beam of hellfire shot down from the pupil. The fire streaked down with an unholy screech, crashing into the ground and sending out a shockwave of smoke and wind.

Although the beam of fire struck down several yards away from the two demons, Angel fought to bite back a strained cry, having to crouch down and plant his feet and extra set of arms into the earth so he wouldn't be carried off by the vortex of smoke and wind. He gnarled his fangs together and clapped his hands over his ears to block out the high-pitched cry that split through the air like a blade. His other set of hands went to mask his face, for the parlous and beastly scent of hellfire was beating against him along with the gusting wind and shards of ice.

The major thing saving Angel from literally clawing for his life was because of the unflinching, solid figure that was Alastor. The demon had not budged a single muscle since taking a step back. His ears twitched _once_ (barely, mind you) when the tortured screams originating from the hellfire sang at a frequency loud enough to shatter eardrums throughout the realm, but other than that, Alastor had remained entirely steadfast. Prim and proper as ever in his trench coat, hands clasped formally behind his back, his eyes never faltering from his target, and a wide golden smile claiming half of his face.

After a few painfully long moments, the eye slowly began to shut, the column of fire flickering out, its only evidence was a smoldering crater of ash, embers, and billowing black smoke in the ground. The force of the beam evaporated on the spot once the eye had shut completely, causing Angel to collapse to the floor in an exhausted heap. A clawed hand reached down and gruffly tugged on his collar, hoisting the spider to his feet in one rough go.

"He can smell fear."

"And here I was thinking that it was the miles of fucking hellfire coming from the sky.”

Alastor spared a brief yet deadly glance at Angel. The spider supposed it was a good thing that Alastor valued self-preservation more than anything, so in a twisted sense of irony, his life couldn't be in better hands.

Not that it mattered of course, with their gruesome fate only yards away from them.

Angel choked on his breath when a leather training boot strode from the ashes, followed by powder-white breaches and an extravagant fur coat with cherry red clasps. Angel could barely see the face of the figure underneath the large top hat that adorned his head.

The figure patted himself down and let out an attentive cough. He was a safe distance away, but his voice carried through the air like an arrow; sharp, fast, and fatal. 

“Well, well, well... what have we here?”

From all physical angles, Lucifer was not an intimidating man. Compared to many other demons, Lucifer stood a good foot shorter (Charlie was right, he was even shorter than her). The clothes on his back were pristine, not a single wrinkle or speckle of dirt to be seen, and the white and rouge color palette was a stark contrast against the gray and color of crusted blood that made the Ninth Realm. There was a dainty spunk in his step, and his face was relaxed and jolly. The man was an enigma; pleasant and welcoming until the stench of hellfire overcame the illusion and warped it into reality. 

Angel could really wait for that other shoe to drop.

“You're highness!” Alastor greeted, fervently bowing, “long time no see!”

Lucifer chuckled as he began to approach Alastor and Angel, leaving a trail of scorched footprints in his wake. “1960's was it? When I stopped you and Vox from lopping each other's heads off... to put it nicely...”

“Has it really been sixty years?”

“Yes, I suppose it really _hasn't_ been a long time after all.”

A beat of silence passed, the belittling tone of the king worming its way through Alastor's mind, making the demon having to grasp at straws in order to formulate a decent response. Angel's vision fell towards Alastor's back, watching his clawed hands wrap tighter around the staff of his microphone, his knuckles brimming more prominently through the skin.

“See here,” Alastor abruptly spoke, gesturing to Angel, “it appears that my fellow comrade and I are rather stuck in this ghastly part of Hell, you wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?”

“Oh, enough with the formalities, sugarplum–” Lucifer licked his lips, brandishing his cane, the apple jewel on the end glowing to life, “we all perfectly know why I'm here.”

Angel could have sworn that if the edge in Alastor and Lucifer's tone of voices got any sharper, it would physically cut the palpable tension between the two of them.

Alastor let out a sigh, static resonating around his person as he brought out his microphone with a well-trained twirl. “That's truly unfortunate, I was really hoping you came all the way out here to catch up.”

Lucifer let out a chuckle, “Yes, there's a part of me that wishes that were the case, but you had to stick your nose where it didn't belong, didn't you?”

“Apologies, although I'm afraid your conditions weren't that specific, your _majesty._ ” Eldritch symbols emerged into the open air and began to float around Alastor, whose antlers began to grow, stretching and snapping with strain, along with his pupils phasing into dials.

“Don't recite the finite texts to me, demon. I was there since their manifestation...” Lucifer exclaimed with a corrupted leer, his voice dropping a fair octave lower, “You didn't heed my warning all those years ago. Had you listened, _perhaps_ I would have spared your life, but I suppose that was just not possible. This was just a long time coming and action needed to be taken.”

The corners of Lucifer's mouth split past his rosy cheeks, revealing more sets of razor-sharp teeth. The yellow of his serpent eyes began to glow, his pupils vibrating into two per eye. Raising his other hand, Lucifer conjured a burst of hellfire, which scorched away in a matter of moments, leaving behind a familiar pink, dotted envelope.

Angel let out a defeated whimper as Lucifer panned over his contract. Lucifer really did set that trap for him in order to checkmate Alastor. Angel's stomach roiled with vengeance as dread numbed his entire body. He had been completely discarded and forgotten, and by judging Alastor donning his full demon form, the radio demon had every intent in standing his ground in the face of certain death. It appeared that Angel was going to die a very pointless and painful death by the hands of two people who didn't give a shit about him.

_Angel was going to die having been controlled his entire life by people who didn't give a shit about him._

“Nevertheless, I've done nothing tto violate your terms and hurt you, my good fellow. I've merely satiated my boredom with your daughter's little passion project. The monotonous life doesn't suit me.” 

In the blink of an eye, Lucifer vanished and reappeared behind Alastor and Angel.

Angel would have jumped back further had it not been for Alastor, who remained firmly in place despite now being inches away from the devil. 

Angel didn't dare to move any closer, he only saw how Lucifer clapped his hand on Alastor's shoulder, harshly tugging him close before leaning up against his ear to whisper something. The top hat and fur coat shielded Angel from being able to deduce what was being said, and no matter how hard he strained his ears, Angel couldn't hear a thing beyond the own chattering of his teeth and shivering joints.

It was almost enough to distract Angel from noticing that Lucifer had aimed his scepter directly at the radio demon, the apple sizzling with raw power. Alastor was readying his own microphone the moment he noticed, the air around him darkening with his magic, but he had been distracted, and it wasn't going to be enough.

_Angel was going to die next to someone who, for the first and last time in his life, was going to lose a fight._

In a moment of blind desperation, Angel lunged at Alastor. The disconcerted overlord fell back as the spider fought for the microphone. As the two grappled for dominance with Lucifer maniacally laughing on top of them and readying to plunge them in hellfire, the magic from Alastor's staff spasmed uncontrollably, unable to obey it's master's command with another being vying for its control. As a precaution, the staff cast a teleportation charm, allowing the two to make a getaway in the nick of time.

Reappearing miles away, Alastor used Angel's disoriented state to his advantage and easily managed to pin him down, grabbing the spider in a choke hold and slamming him with brute finality into the ground. 

“What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?” Alastor seethed.

“Saving our lives, what's it look like?” Angel countered, “but I didn't know this is what it took in order to bring the kinky side outta ya, damn I gotta do that more often–”

Alastor let out a disgruntled scoff, pushing himself off the spider immediately. “I suppose I was wrong about you, Angel. You really _are_ as dumb as you look. I refuse to let you interfere with my last moments looking as if I ran from the King of Hell. I will not die a coward!”

“There's a fine between bravery and stupidity, and smiling in the face of Lucifer is beyond stupid, ya asshole!” Angel rebuked, rising to his full height. “Remember, my ass got dragged into this for no goddamn reason and I'm not about to sit tight and let ya fuck around tryin' to be all high and mighty and shit.”

“I’m merely stating the facts. We won't survive this, so I suggest you make your peace with it.”

“Gee, that ain't very dapper of ya–”

Angel yelped when Alastor hoarsely yanked on his collar, bailing him from a path of hellfire that had barged around the corner of the stone apartment they sheltered against. 

When the current passed, Angel looked up at the building in confusion before finally taking the time to notice his surroundings. “Where are we?”

They were still in the Ninth Realm for sure, but they were no longer stranded in the middle of a desolate tundra. Instead, they were in a dingy, dark alleyway next to an apartment, which shouldered another apartment, and then another, and another. Outlets were lined across the dirt path, dimly lit cafes and convenience stores filled with demons trying to escape the unforgiving cold. Stalactites clung to telephone poles and awnings, some long enough to block a path. The streetlamps and gutters that were crammed into every available space did little to combat the gloomy weather, the ice and dirt sticking to every surface like festering parasites. 

They were in a town, and people were _definitely_ beginning to notice that something was amok. 

“You honestly didn't think that the Ninth Realm was just barren wasteland, did you?” Alastor sardonically hummed. “While the towns may be far and few, demons inhabit this land just like any others, and they don't just camp out in igloos.” 

The two demons watched as the villagers emerged from their shelter, marveling at black patches of scorched land the hellfire had left behind. 

“Those poor cretins don't know any better,” Alastor tutted with amusement. 

Angel snickered, “They're loss! They'll all be fucking dead in two seconds if they don't get out of the way. Whelp, if I'm gonna die, might as well bring a few fuckers down with me.”

“So they shall...” Alastor's voice died down as his head lilt coyly to the side, an expression of realization overcoming his features. _“So they shall...”_

“Al?” Angel commented quizzically. 

“I have procured a possible plan that may lead us to our survival.”

“Great,” Angel said, unexpectedly happy for the first time in a while, “let's hear it!”

“I recall something Lucifer offhandedly disclosed to me during our first encounter. I am not entirely indebted of its reliability, but it is worth mentioning,” Alastor turned to Angel, “we need Lucifer to kill someone.”

Before Angel could reply, the two demons had to duck for cover when another stream of raging hellfire came barreling down the main road, missing citizens by fractions of an inch. The citizens screamed, retreating back indoors as telephone poles collapsed, causing sparks and outages, plunging the town into an unlit haze. Even the thicker of the bunch made themselves scarce once the scent of gore and paralyzing fear came rolling in soon after. 

Angel puckered his lips, “Ya really don't think folks here ain't gonna die from the collateral damage?”

“No, take a look and tell me what you see.”

Besides the panic and busted streetlamps and knocked over telephone poles, Angel couldn't scope out what Alastor was seeing. 

“Sorry, I got nothing.”

 _“Exactly,”_ Alastor wrung his arm around Angel's neck, “you would think that a massive scourge of hellfire would incinerate any demon in its wake, but _look.”_

Angel peeked around the corner of the apartment, examining the road as far as his eyes could see (which, thanks to his heightened senses as an arachnid, was pretty far). Alastor was right. The trajectory of the hellfire that careened down the road thinned and weaved with meticulous care. Presumably, avoiding folks that had been standing in its wake. 

“Heh,” Angel mused, “why would Lucifer give a shit?” 

With a jostle, winding static erupted from Alastor's microphone. As the pitch tuned in, Angel could distinctly hear voices being emitted from the device. It sounded like a conversation. Angel easily picked up on Alastor's pompous voice, and then another cut in, airing with a different sort of egotism that managed to make Alastor sound cheap. 

The jabber remained faint and slightly garbled, until the fuzz thinned into one clear line, _“... I may not being able to harm you now...”_

Angel lolled his pointed index finger as he grew to recognize the voice. “That was Lucifer.” 

“Indeed.” Alastor confirmed, tucking his microphone away. “You see, for a time, those few words utterly _confounded_ me. Why couldn't Lucifer hurt me? I quickly grew bored of attempting to procure a sufficient conclusion, but it matters not. All that matters is that statement holds truth, and we can use that to our advantage.”

“So if Lucifer can't hurt certain people, we could use them as shields!” Angel said with an evil glint in his eyes. 

Alastor gave Angel a rare smile of approval, “Perhaps you aren't as stupid as you look after all.”

Their treasured moment was interrupted when a silencing echo boomed across the sky as an incoming storm rolled in, causing the buildings and poles to quiver in fear.

_“The itsy bitsy spider climbed up the water spout...”_

Alastor fiercely bared his teeth at the sky as blood red clouds rumbled in. Suddenly, Alastor's head snapped down. He brought his hand to his face, it came away crimson.

_“Down came the rain and washed the spider out...”_

“What the–” Angel scrunched his face, feeling a phantom sting wherever Alastor had touched his face, but whatever words had formed on Angel's tongue died as something _hot_ burned his arm. Angel scanned his arm where something had cindered his fur right off, leaving behind a flayed, sore opening, exposing raw flesh. With trembling fingers, he touched the spot, wiping off the substance that was stuck to his skin. It held the consistency and appearance of tar, but it smelled of death, fear, and metal. 

“Blood rain.” Alastor exclaimed with fury. Another droplet of blood splattered on Angel, causing him to cry out. With a wave of his hand, Alastor's shadow pounced from the wall, shielding the two demons from the onslaught that grew more intense with each passing second. However, it was evident that their protection would not last, as the shadow's face grew more contorted with pain, its form deforming and dissolving at an agonizing pace that was beginning to speed up. 

“This is a flush-out,” Angel observed, “he's trying to corner us!”

“It would seem so! We must take cover!” With another wave of his hand, the shadow collapsed on him and Angel, the two disappearing in a cloud of darkness before reappearing in some shabby cafe.

Their appearance had been largely ignored as the patrons of the shop were too engrossed at watching the sky rain blood from the windows. Grandiosely throwing his arms forward, black tendrils shot from behind Alastor, snatching every demon in the room and hoisting them in the air. Some of them hovered so close, their frantic breaths beat against Alastor and Angel's skin. 

“Hey,” Angel whispered, unraveling his extra appendages along with his gun, “as long as we got at least one of these fuckers tethered to us, Lucifer can't touch us.”

Alastor didn't reply. 

_“Peek-a-boo!”_

Alastor and Angel heard it before they saw him. 

In the blink of an eye, Alastor created a barricade of bodies, creating a wall from floor to ceiling. Alastor and Angel hit the deck, feeling the heat of hellfire just beyond their wall of bodies. The two demons shared a look of confusion, _was Lucifer killing them?_ From their muffled screams, it sure sounded like it. It was only when a beam of hellfire managed to burst through the wall did it click in Alastor's mind: _his own magic tendrils were shielding the demons from the hellfire._

Angel caught on quickly as another beam leaked through, shooting out just inches away from Angel's face. He didn't need to be told twice as the two raced for the counter behind them, vaulting over and lying flat on the ground. Twisting his fist, Alastor summoned his tendrils to draw back; the wall moving back to encompass the both of them so Lucifer couldn't get any closer. 

Angel was tempted to check what was happening, but decided it was in his interest not to. Looking back, Alastor was whispering something to his shadow. With a curt nod, the shadow flew to the wall of bodies and began plucking... _something_ in the air.

Angel gawked with bewilderment, until–thanks to the right angle and lighting of the hellfire–he saw it. The shadow _was_ tugging on something; it was _grabbing_ the shadows of the other demons. 

Angel knew what he had to do. Holding his breath, he bolted from his hiding place, scuttling on the ground and snatching two demons for himself, dragging them back behind the counter with him, pressing one into a choke hold and mounting his gun against the other's temple. 

With the snap of Alastor's fingers, the two were gone again, reappearing in a convenience store this time. The four bodies Alastor's shadow managed to wrangle floundered about, hollering profanities and trying to run away despite their shadows being pinned to Alastor's. Angel himself was unsure how much longer he could hold onto his own two hostages which were starting to writhe more flagrantly against their restraint. The few customers occupying the store all turned their attention to the eight demons that had appeared in the middle of the shop. Angel was willing to bet all of them would have just turned the other cheek if it had been anyone else but Alastor, but upon recognizing the radio demon, many of the customers fled the scene (with stolen goods tucked in their grasp). 

As the last few patrons flew out the door (Alastor and Angel could hear their screams as the blood rain pelt down on them), Lucifer waltzed in, with not a drop of blood on his person. 

As Lucifer brandished his staff, readying for an attack, Alastor sent a blast of fire streaming at the devil from all angles. Alastor grinned wickedly as the flames struck Lucifer, but the corner of his mouth curled down when the fire began to circle around the devil, before being sucked into head of his staff. 

Alastor transported him and Angel out of the shop before Lucifer could send the attack right back at them.

“Summon Husk and Niffty!” Angel yelled as one of his hostages managed to escape his hold, scrambling for freedom. “They'd be a lot easier to deal with than these scumbags!”

“I can't.” Alastor said as he assessed their surroundings. 

“Whaddy'a mean, _ya can't?_ Unless they dealt with the devil, you have their contracts! Fucking use them!”

“I can't summon them! It must have something to do with being unable to contact the hotel–” 

Uninterested in explaining further, Alastor hoisted his microphone into the air; the staff began to strum out a low tune as radio waves projected themselves around the demons. 

“What are you doing?” Angel asked.

“Distorting reality, he will be unable to see or hear us.” 

“Why don't you snap your fingers at him? Turn him into a cockroach or some shit?” 

“You presume I have not already attempted to do so?” Alastor blundered incredulously, “It does _nothing_ to him.” 

Angel was about to make a witty rebuttal, but slammed his jaw shut when the door to the apartment (they had appeared in) swung open, revealing a quite literal hell-bent Lucifer. 

Alastor continued to have his microphone emit radio waves as he scanned Lucifer for any hint of their cover not working. 

“Come out, come out, wherever you are...” Lucifer taunted in a sing-song voice, tiptoeing throughout the room, “I know you're in here...” 

His eyes panned over them once, twice, and then three times. Lucifer gave no indication that he saw them, instead, he peered his head around a conjoining room, entering it with caution. He disappeared behind the walls, slowly running his nails along the walls and furniture and kicking down doors. 

Alastor propped his staff horizontally, holding it like a spear as he yanked Angel close with his free arm. “Move,” he hissed. Alastor then proceeded to walk forwards, his shadow dragging his hostages close behind, and Angel sticking by his side, hauling his own captive. 

The two reared the corner, facing the second room. They could hear Lucifer walk down the hallway just to the side of the room. 

Angel's heart was beating madly, he was surprised he hadn't accidentally pulled the trigger on his hostage out of sheer stress. He had lost track of how long they had been running from Lucifer, but it felt as if he was about to faint. Angel was no stranger to fights, and while he had gone clean for a few months, it wasn't long enough to throw off his game should he be put to the test. However, he never willingly faced off against an opponent that he had no chance of beating. He knew how to pick his battles. 

And no matter how Alastor twisted his words, he operated the same way. The man found solace in finding himself in familiar settings; somewhere where he could be in control at all times. Of course, the only difference was that there was no foe more powerful than Alastor. Angel had seen Alastor's power at work. He could kill a demon with a fucking whistle, and even _that_ was overkill at times. 

Yet, here was Lucifer, turning all of this into a game and duping the most fearsome overlord into looking like mere _child's play._

Alastor and Angel could hear Lucifer's footsteps approach them, and even though it should have been safe to make noise, everyone stilled their breaths. The overlord held his staff high, ready to launch at the first sign of movement. Angel prepared to open fire. Even the hostages had ceased their movements. 

When Lucifer made his appearance, Alastor propelled his staff at a speed so fast that Angel almost lost grip of his gun.

Alastor's microphone buried itself into Lucifer's chest with a satisfying _slice._

Before Lucifer had a chance to rip it out, the microphone began to vibrate, halting any movement Lucifer was making, instead, falling to his knees and gritting his teeth through what appeared to be akin to a seizure. 

Without missing a beat, Alastor opened a portal directly beneath Lucifer. Black tendrils sprung from the pit, latching themselves onto Lucifer and pulling him down with force that made all the furniture in the room shatter and the walls crack. Alastor stepped closer, using all his might to reel the devil into the pit. Blood oozed from his clenched fists and gums from clenching his teeth together too tight. The dials in his eyes spun uncontrollably, the air around him constantly shifting from static to different stations. Red voodoo symbols painted the walls, pulsating, thrumming, and glowing with a terrifying ferocity.

Similar to before, Angel had to crouch low as to not be blown off his feet. The magnitude of the magic was beginning to blast the wall to bits, the hardwood floor peeling back. 

Miraculously, it truly looked as if Alastor was going to win. 

Until Lucifer opened his mouth, unleashing the cries of all of the fallen. 

There was no resisting the sound. 

The cries of hellfire sounded like a lullaby in comparison. 

Angel fell to the side, clamping all of his hands over his bleeding ears. It wasn't making much of a difference.

Alastor's magic released at once as his hands went to protect his ears which were also beginning to ooze blood. Even he could not brave composure at such a horrific volume of noise. 

As the pitch grew higher, to the point where their minds could not process such a frequency, Angel and Alastor's vision became bleached with white. 

* * *

When the two demons came around, they sat in silence, stunned beyond comprehension.

They were _alive._

Alastor could even admit that the sound was enough to kill him had he suffered at its hand for another minute. 

But they were alive, and they were _fine._

Aside from the fact that their skin seemed to itch with a burning passion and they were covered from head to toe in blood. 

“I must say, what a spectacular performance!”

The two demons gasped, their attention shooting to the voice.

It was Lucifer.

Alastor and Angel were back in that dark and damp alley. It was as if they had never left.

“What a climax! What theatrics!” Lucifer giddily cheered, shaking out a parasol that was drenched with blood. “I haven't had a good showing like that in more than a millennium or two! Who knows, I've lost track!” He let out a boisterous laugh. 

Looking at the pained expressions of the demons, Lucifer tutted with shame, “Aw, it's such a bummer that _none of it was actually real.”_

_The blood rain._

_It had all been a trick._

_All that effort..._

“Blood rain is an amazing thing.” Lucifer mused, “But I must give you my compliments, what a valiant fight on your ends! And your strategy to cheat death by cheating _my_ system? Saving your skin with innocent souls? _Genius!”_

 _And now_ he _knew that_ they _knew..._

Lucifer idly began to pace, placing a finger on his chin in thought, “Although, I am rather disappointed that I didn't get to show you all of my neat little tricks. You should witness my apple tree vines, _ha!”_ He point his parasol at Alastor, “Your black magic would be no match for them! But that ending, absolutely transformative! I am humbled, but it's not like I'd ever allow myself to fall into that predicament in the first place...” 

The two demons could only gape in horror.

Alastor was spent. 

Angel was traumatized.

“Let's take things elsewhere, shall we?"

With the snap of his fingers, the three of them disappeared, reappearing back to where it all started in the middle of the wasteland. 

Lucifer had Angel in a choke hold.

Alastor found that he couldn't move. He felt a ghostly pair of arms wrapped tightly around his body. Glancing to the side, he could see the outline of a shadow. _Lucifer's_ shadow, it was attached to him like a parasite, leeching away his magic and strength. 

“Al... a... stor–” Angel garbled, “H... hel... lp!” 

Alastor had not let his smile falter the entire time, but if there was ever a time he was close to letting it fall, this was it.

“Please, doll, have you forgotten the rules? I have his contract, I have _complete_ bodily control over him.” Lucifer shook Angel for emphasis, his two-pupil eyes radiating with excitement, “and wherever this little _thing_ goes, you go.

I didn't have to trap you all the way out here. I didn't have to wait for you to make your little survival plan. I didn't have to put you under a spell...”

_He had been toying with them the entire time._

“But... _this was very entertaining!”_

Angel locked eyes with Alastor. The pain in Angel's eyes was overwhelming, and Alastor couldn't help but feel like a _failure._

_It was over._

Lucifer hummed as the grip on Angel's throat tightened.

_“Out came the sun and dried up all the rain...”_

_And the itsy bitsy spider... was never to be seen again.”_

With the snap of Lucifer's fingers, Angel went up in hellfire. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Many. Rewrites.  
> Anyways, thank you all for your lovely comments, they seriously motivate me to keep writing. You all are so sweet, they warm my heart so much!  
> Stay safe everyone


	4. Fire Drill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fire is a menacing thing, and so are receptionists and one royally pissed off Cherri Bomb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that I made an error in the second chapter.  
> Instead of having Alastor take the brunt of the hellfire (that transported them to the ninth realm), it was supposed to be Angel.  
> I corrected this mistake and edited it but it's definitely not worth going back over

When he was alive and growing up in a household where violence was a way of life, Angel, like his brother, had a macabre interest in discovering what different instruments of pain felt like. 

It had evolved into a sort of competition; measuring how much pain each device inflicted and seeing how much they could endure.

They were children. The game was short-lived as the thrill turned into annoyance and coming up with more methods got tedious very quickly. 

However, one of their tests had involved seeing who could tolerate the presence of fire the longest.

They jumped into the challenge with foolhardy ignorance. Fire brought warmth, its flickering flame bringing a sense of tranquility and a crackling hearth had an ethereal beauty. Surely a little touch couldn't hurt that much...

The boys each struck a match and watched as the flame ate away at the little sticks, traveling down to the tips of their fingers. 

Angel had dropped the match first, shortly followed by his brother, who got a firm scolding dished from their mamma as she tended to his burnt finger. (Angel was not reprimanded nearly as much, but he was called a “chicken shit” for the next eight days.)

Nevertheless, both boys learned that day that fire was deceivingly, unbearably hot. 

They remembered their stint well when a few short years later they were running from gunfire, grenades, and other ticking time bombs of the sort.

Fire brought about a pain like no other, a pain they wouldn't even wish on their worst enemies.

Being devoured by it would be one of the worst ways to go.

Looking back, even then Angel had grossly underestimated what being burned alive would feel like. 

Angel had hoped that with the sheer power Lucifer wielded, the hellfire–should he be captured–would cause him to simply combust instantaneously.

He should have known better. 

Seconds were fast, but fire was faster. 

Of course Lucifer, with all ill-mannered intent like the devil he was, wanted to draw this out as long as he could, but Angel's fur soaked up the flames as quickly as Niffty rushed to clean a mess. With god's good graces, Angel's mind would shut down to prevent madness, or he'd suffocate, or he'd simply char into nothing before all was said and done. 

He couldn't quite remember what was happening (the memory was shot long after the incident), only that he was crying, _howling,_ even though his lungs had no air... and he would do _anything_ to make it stop. That's all he really had to say about it, for words could not capture the essence of the excruciating torture that was burning to (the sweet release of) death. 

And _finally_ , it did stop. 

* * *

Alastor crumpled to the floor. 

He genuinely couldn't remember the last time he had screamed. A real, uncontrolled, genuine scream of _pain._

In previous scraps, had he been hit hard enough, he could grant himself a sharp exhale through a gritted grin before dissolving into a fit of laughter to wane off the pain. 

With Alastor's magic seemingly being drawn from a bottomless well, the radio demon could practically stomach a knife or three through the chest and only have it be an inconvenience for a day or so. It even took more than a few lucky shots from an Angel Weapon to take him down. Even when Alastor was alive, he had a remarkable tolerance for pain; setting aside injuries that had others out for a week (a luxury he couldn't afford at the time). 

It was just one of the many things Alastor prided himself for. 

So just as Angel went up in flames and the pain assaulted Alastor from all angles, he clung onto his sense of dignity with every shred of fiber in his body and managed to maintain it all for an impressive tenth of a second (Lucifer would say it was even less). 

Dignity, composure, and pride flew out the window in a heartbeat; the terms lost on him as pain filled his head, forcefully disbanding any other thought that he had ingrained in his mind so chronically. 

He couldn't feel his body convulse.

He couldn't suck in a sufficient breath to keep screaming. 

He couldn't escape the pain.

He couldn't fight the darkness that would, _thankfully,_ put him out of his misery.

* * *

At first, Lucifer had planned to tame the hellfire to make the radio demon's death as slow and as torturous as possible. He had the power to make the pain last for days. Hell, if he wanted to waste his time, he could keep him on the brink of death for all eternity, but the poor thing would lose his mind in a matter of minutes and the whole ordeal would lose its sentimentality.

He didn't realize the spider's fur would catch so quickly.

It was a rather glorious sight to behold. 

The bright red flames greedily licking the blood-soaked fur; the white ends crinkling to blackened char and grazing the bare skin that lied beneath, giving off a sickeningly bitter smell in tandem with the hideous scent that hellfire already produced. 

However, Lucifer could not give a single damn about the spider. He was here for Alastor, whose body flailed from an invisible pain that was transmitted from the soul he was bound to.

_It honestly looked absurd._

So, with the flick of his wrist, Lucifer sent Alastor up in hellfire as well.

It didn't make a difference for Alastor, it just made his death look far more aesthetically pleasing to Lucifer. The demon almost seemed to blend into the fire as the red (clothes) on red (blood) on red (the fire, of course) danced together harmoniously. If it were not for the screaming and thrashing, Alastor beautifully fit right into the scene, as if all along he belonged here, his face melting off like candle wax at Lucifer's feet. 

Alastor would be dead before becoming entirely disintegrated. Perhaps Lucifer would preserve his body as a trophy. He would then take immense pleasure in broadcasting his own carnage of the burnt corpse, still so fresh that the rotting scent would ooze right through screens and radios (he loved a good sense of irony). Or he could parade it through all the streets of Hell, showing what would happen if they dared defy the will of a King (he'd have an excuse to take a gander at his daughter's hotel that way). After, he could then encase the shriveled body or pin it up on a wall in his castle and allow demons to peruse through his halls to get a glimpse of the mangled thing as if it were a museum attraction. 

It would be a pity that Alastor wouldn't be there to see any of it. Even he might find it amusing, for now _he_ was the entertainment. 

In truth, the overlord could put up a good fight (against any other opponent that is). The power and skill the demon wielded was exemplary, but if he were to take on the mantle of King, he would realize just how shallow his source of power was. 

Yes, Alastor had managed to tap into the greater banks of magic and power that Hell had to offer, but Lucifer _owned_ all the banks. Lucifer was connected to the very flow of power that created Hell, and no matter how highly Alastor thought of himself, he was not invincible; he had limits, they all did. Not while he remained a mere subject, a pawn (okay, perhaps a knight at best) created out of the very essence that Lucifer was born into. 

It was an unspoken rule that it was best to just turn the other cheek at all costs when it came to Lucifer. Even Alastor could openly admit that. It was the reason why–with Alastor normally being the confrontational type–that even he strayed from showing his face around the castle. It was delusional to think that anyone could challenge Lucifer, a being who existed since Hell's manifestation, since the birth of humanity.

Hell operated on an elitist system of destructive power, unbreakable contracts and strict rules. When you had someone who was at the top of the food chain and could play fast and loose with all three regimes, you learned your place, _fast._ It wasn't worth it, it was _never_ worth it. If you wanted to live, it was in anyone's best interest to avoid the King entirely.

Because messing with Lucifer granted you a one-way ticket to death... and _that_ place... 

Well, everyone feared something, even the most powerful being in all Hell. 

_Had_ the overlord succeeded in executing his plan, there was a great chance that he would have had a real chance of claiming the throne. It was risky, but it was clever and the closest anyone had ever gotten to being worth Lucifer's undivided attention. 

It was almost a shame that such a staple icon of Hell had to be snuffed out.

So it was with great confusion when the flames on both demons suddenly dwindled away, leaving the two demons quaking in unconscious shock and debilitating pain, but still very much _alive._

Before Lucifer had the chance to ponder on the abnormality, a scene of blinding red flames overcame his vision and white hot pain blistered across his skin.

* * *

_“You've reached Porn Studios! We'll blow more than just your mind! How may we satisfy you?”_

Charlie lowered her phone, deeply inhaling through the mental pain. Prior to dialing, she had steeled herself into being prepared for anything that was going to be thrown her way. Sexual innuendos had to be accounted for as well.

“Hello!” Charlie forcefully said. “I wanted to inquire about Angel Dust–”

 _“I'm sorry,”_ returned the snooty, lip-glossy receptionist, _“Angel Dust is no longer available.”_

Any reply that Charlie had rehearsed with Vaggie died on her lips. “Wait, what does that mean? What happened?”

 _“May we interest you in our latest additions?”_ The receptionist conversed, clacking away at some laptop and ignoring Charlie's question entirely, _“We are now proud owners of Queen Lilith's finest Incubi and Sucubi, they are $1,000 a session and are guaranteed–”_

“No, stop! I'm not interested in booking a _session,”_ Charlie shuddered, almost unable to regurgitate the words while processing the information, “what do you mean that Angel's no longer available?”

Charlie cupped the mic of her phone and ushered Vaggie over, halting her process of dialing Cherri. 

“He doesn't work at the Studio anymore!” Charlie hissed.

“What?” Vaggie's jaw went slack. 

Charlie wildly shook her head with a mad expression of obliviousness before she nodded off back to her conversation as she heard what sounded like nails grating against steel. Vaggie resumed calling Cherri with a more wary edge written across her face.

 _“I am unauthorized to provide such information,”_ the receptionist snapped, irritation seeping into her voice. _“Information which I myself or my cohorts know nothing of. Now, for further instructions, please check our website or social media to stay updated on our latest changes.”_

“Okay, fine, but is Angel Dust at the Studio right now? I'm a friend.” 

_“Jesus fucking Christ.”_ Charlie heard the receptionist mumble before waiting through a few beats of silence. _“Sorry ma'am, Angel Dust is not currently present at our establishment. If you have any more questions, why don't you stop by so we can remove that stick out of your ass?”_

It was baffling; the lewd tone of her voice accompanied with the insult was like a slap to the face. 

However, it did give Charlie an idea.

“You know what?” Charlie responded with newfound determination. “I think I will stop by!” 

_“Excellent! What services would you be interested?”_

“I request an audience with Valentino.”

_“I'm sorry, Valentino does not offer–”_

This was probably a poor gamble, but like her father said, _you don't take shit from other demons._

“My name is Charlotte Magne, I am the Princess of Hell and heir to the throne as Lucifer's daughter.”

Charlie couldn't even hear the receptionist breathing.

“I will repeat myself once more: I request an audience with Valentino as soon as possible... please.” 

* * *

Vaggie meandered away from Charlie who's chest was puffed up with emboldened defiance, the glint in her eyes suggesting that she had concocted a plan (that either meant the conversation was going remarkably right or remarkably terrible). Nonetheless, Vaggie opted to give her space. 

Suddenly, the line on Vaggie's phone stopped ringing and an abrasive voice cut through the speaker. _“Who's this?”_

 _Oh boy._ “Hey, is this Cherri? It's Vaggie, from the Happy Hotel–”

_“So, tortilla tits finally decided to give me a call!”_

Maybe she _should_ have vouched for calling the Studio instead.

“Oh, so _you're_ Angel's influence for sexism and racism.”

_“Yeah, you got a fucking problem with that?”_

Vaggie felt her face flush with rage. She had honestly forgotten how provocative Angel was when he had first arrived at the hotel. His unfiltered comments that were intentionally meant to get under her skin could really, unsurprisingly, grind Vaggie's gears. And if _this_ was where Angel had gotten it from–

“Well, _yeah–”_ she snapped, tugging on a lock of her hair. 

_Stop. Take a deep breath. It's not you, it's her. I need to stay focused._

“But that's not why I called.” 

_“Damn, what the fuck did I do for you to talk to me?”_

Vaggie resigned to rolling her eyes (so much so that her eye sockets ached). “Is Angel with you?” 

_“No, he's working this week.”_

“Um, no he's not.”

_“Um, yes he fucking is, he told me so two nights ago, sweetie.”_

“Well, _sweetie,_ we just contacted the Studio now, and they just told us that Angel is no longer working there!”

Cherri let out an obnoxious cackle, not buying Vaggie's words one bit. The moth stayed silent, allowing the other to revel in the ridiculous notion before hopefully seeing that Vaggie was not the sort to call the likes of her without an actual reason. 

_“Oh shit, are you fucking serious?”_

“You really think I _wanted_ to talk to you?” 

Moments passed without a hint of seething from the other line. Thinking that Cherri had perhaps hung up, Vaggie increased the volume and leaned closer. 

_“Why the fuck didn't he let me know!?”_

Vaggie jerked the phone away when Cherri's high-pitched squeal ripped through the speaker. “I think you're missing the point!” Vaggie shrieked back (she couldn't hear her own voice over the ringing in her eardrums). 

_“Well shit, I ain't got a clue where the fucker ran off to!”_

“You sure he isn't out shopping or whatever else he does in his free time?”

_“Shopping without me? As if I'd let that happen. Besides, the guy barely has free time. Between Valentino and you lot, he doesn't get out much anymore. If he was doing random shit, I'd be the first to know, but why did you guys suspect he was missing?”_

Cherri was literally the last person who needed to know the details of their situation.

“Nothing of your concern.”

_“Excuse me? Bitch, if you don't give me a straight fucking answer I will not hesitate to blow your little shithole up, you got me?”_

From what Vaggie heard from Angel, Cherri probably wasn't bluffing. And once she figured out that Alastor wasn't at the hotel either... there was already a hole in the wall, they didn't need any more. 

“Fine,” Vaggie reluctantly caved (she knew she was going to regret this), “something's happening at the hotel right now and it's weird he's not working for the Studio anymore, so we're just being cautious.”

_“Was that so hard?”_

“You're actually terrible.”

_“I know, but yeah, that is kinda weird. I'm gonna look into it.”_

_Fuck._

“Cherri, _no.”_

_“Why the fuck not?”_

“Look, I can't disclose anything else right now but if we're right it could be really fucking serious and the less people that are involved the safer it is.”

_“You think I give a shit about your guys' safety? I only give a shit about Angie, you got that, tortilla tits? And I'm gonna find him whether you like it or not.”_

“Cherri, just listen for one sec–”

_“But hey, if ya somehow find him first, kick his ass for me! Toodles!”_

“Wait! Cherri! I think we're dealing with Lu–”

Vaggie clenched her phone as she heard the line go dead.

“Is he with her?” Charlie cut in, walking over to Vaggie.

Vaggie solemnly shook her head. “Nope, all I managed to do was send her on a warpath trying to find him, and if we try to stop her, that hole in the wall isn't going to be the only one.”

Charlie winced. “Did you tell her that...”

“No. Don't know where _that_ would have led.” 

“Good,” Charlie sighed with relief, “we can deal with Cherri, not sure if we can deal with Cherri _and_ my dad.”

The antsy tension in Charlie's body didn't bode well. “Better luck on your end?” Vaggie asked with false hope. 

With a groan, Charlie confessed, “When I mentioned that I was the princess of Hell, the receptionist who was just telling me I had a stick up my ass suddenly became super accommodating, like she was afraid to mess with me. And she also mentioned that they swapped Angel out with a couple of my mom's workers...”

The terror in Charlie's eyes (which were cast down on the floor) was tangible with every word she said, as if each syllable were causing her physical pain. 

“There's only one person who has the authority to do something like that, and it wouldn't be my mom.”

Vaggie was _so afraid_ it would come to this.

“Vaggie, my dad did something to the _both_ of them. I can't waste any more time. I need to go see him.”

Vaggie tensed her muscles. Neither of them wanted to admit that confronting Lucifer was what needed to be done. Without any leverage or any real reason to demand the boys safe return other than Charlie's pleas, speeches about forgiveness and “improv skills,” it was just fighting a losing battle that would most likely result in soul-shattering failure. Or even worse (what Vaggie mostly feared), Lucifer would completely ruin Charlie, emotionally or otherwise. 

“I can't just sit here and do nothing. I have to at least _try.”_ Charlie began to march over to gaping entrance in the hotel, Vaggie following behind. 

As much as Vaggie knew this idea would only end in tears, Charlie was right. And if Vaggie was being honest with herself, she wouldn't leave Angel or even Alastor to rot in the hands of Lucifer without at least trying to save them. The fact that those two were already at his mercy hadn't quite hit her yet, but she knew that something needed to be done, even at Charlie's expense. In truth, if she could, she would take Charlie's place and march up to Lucifer and demand the boy's whereabouts herself (because _deep_ down, even Alastor didn't deserve whatever punishment Lucifer was most likely inflicting on him). 

She wanted to give them their best chance at being saved, and that came from Charlie.

Charlie ducked through the hole and out onto the pavement outside. “And it needs to be me, alone–”

“I know.”

“And I'm really sorry but I don't have time for you to stop me–” Charlie finally looked up, “oh, you said...”

“Babe,” Vaggie managed to laugh, trying her best not to tremble with fear, “I know you gotta go do this yourself and that we don't have a choice. We have to try. So _go.”_

Charlie snatched Vaggie into a tight embrace.

“Alright,” Charlie cooed, trying to soothe the other to the best of her ability before running her fingers through Vaggie's hair as she released her, taking her hands in her own instead, “but there's something I need you to do in the meantime.”

“Of course.” Vaggie said softly with an endearing cock of her head.

“Just know that I would never do this to you unless I had to. I trust you more than anyone, including myself, and–”

“Charlie, just tell me.”

“I told the receptionist that my most trusted cohorts were to arrive to speak with Valentino upon my behalf regarding Angel.” Charlie squeaked out with puffed cheeks of disquiet.

“Ah.” It was no secret that Vaggie (in shocking similarity to Alastor) had a form of repulsion aimed towards the more venereal intimacies of life. 

“I'm so sorry.”

“Hey, don't be.” Vaggie lightly scolded with a wagging finger, “I wasn't comfortable with not helping Angel and Alastor.”

Relief flooded through Charlie. She really, _really_ needed to hear that Vaggie was going to be okay with all of this.

“Hold on,” Vaggie suddenly said, “Cohorts? With an s?”

Charlie slightly smiled. “I asked Husk to accompany you.”

On cue, a gruff voice interjected into the girl's conversation, “You know, I only do this shit because I'm legally bound to. Consider yourselves lucky.”

Husk slouched out from the hotel, ambling up to shoulder Vaggie.

“Well,” Charlie said, uncomfortably shuffling in place, “I should get going.”

The other two could only nod. 

Charlie reached into her pocket and pulled out a tiny little bell, used to summon Razzle and Dazzle (it was a parting gift from Lucifer). With a ring, two limos appeared in a cloud of smoke, Razzle at the wheel of Charlie's and Dazzle at the helm for the other's ride.

Charlie couldn't look away from Vaggie and Husk as she numbly climbed into the backseat of her ride, but before Razzle could gun the engine, Charlie rolled the window down, leaned out, grabbed Vaggie's top and pulled her in for a messy kiss. 

When the two parted, Vaggie held a firm grip on Charlie's shoulder and looked her dead in the eyes. “ _You_ come first.”

Charlie could only smile. “I love you.” 

With that, Charlie sunk back into the car and ordered Razzle to step on it. As the car sped into the distance, Charlie and Vaggie emptily waved to one another until they merged into the scenery. 

There was no point in sharing any other last minute warnings, sarcastic threats or safety precautions. Vaggie knew that Charlie was mindful of everything she could have possibly said, she just _prayed_ that she would heed the advice and come home (to her). 

“She's gonna be fine.” Husk said with certainty.

“Yeah,” Vaggie shakily responded, “I know that she realistically will be, it's just that this isn't _ideal.”_

“She's got it that bad with him, huh?”

“You have no idea.”

Vaggie wasn't sure if Husk had meant to say “you bet I can” loud enough for her to hear.

“Well, no use standing here,” Vaggie pepped. “We have a date with a pimp.”

Dazzle rolled up, the backdoor swinging open.

The two climbed in. Vaggie turned her head out the window and kept her mouth clenched shut.

“Porn Studios.” Husk said to Dazzle.

With a nod, the demon revved the car into drive and sped off.

“On the bright side,” Husk said, “Niffty's gonna do wonders on that door by the time we get back.”

Vaggie didn't reply.

Husk pretended not to notice the tears that rolled down her cheeks. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that this is so short, but it was necessary given the context. You can be sure that next chapter will be a long one:) Thank you all for your incredible support, stay safe!


	5. Drawing Board

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's back to the drawing board for Lucifer as he makes haste to reconcile with his imperative mistake.
> 
> Meanwhile, the boys find themselves in the Eighth Realm, and they both have newfound reasons to be upset about it.

Lucifer let out a feral roar as he flung the remains of desk into the nearest wall for the fifth time. 

He was fairly certain that the sentries posted outside his office had scattered by this point. 

_How could he have been so stupid!?_

He had been focusing on _Alastor_ so much that he had neglected the very demon that had made this entire operation possible, a fucking _porn star._

He had doomed himself the moment he accepted that contract. 

Lucifer had everything in order to cause the overlord's demise, but he had severely overlooked one _major, critical, vital_ flaw in his plan:

_He could not hurt Angel Dust, for Angel had done nothing to harm him._

The only time the spider ever had the intention to harm Lucifer had been stirred from a hallucination caused by blood rain, and even then it was out of self-defense (which Lucifer assumed probably didn't fit the bill anyways). 

The threat to harm the devil had to be of one's own conscious volition. A planned murder, an intentional means to hurt the king even though no wrong had bestowed them on Lucifer's behalf. With the soul-bond, Alastor could have had a knife slicing through Lucifer's neck and digging towards the back to his spine, but as long as Angel remained innocent, Lucifer could not even afford to defend himself and jeopardize Angel's well-being through Alastor. 

If Alastor was in pain, Angel was in pain. If Alastor was dying, Angel was dying.

He had meant for Angel Dust to be Alastor's doom, but instead, he had become his savior. 

And now, through a spectacular failure, it finally occurred to Lucifer that he could not harm a single hair on Alastor's head so long the contract remained intact, and if he were to destroy the contract, he was back to square one. Actually, no– he would be even worse off. Charlie would have realized by now that something was amiss, and if he gave up, he'd have to deal with answering to more than just Alastor. 

When the hellfire had befallen the two demons, it took a few moments for the magic of the contract to reconcile with the treaty of Lucifer's inability to harm an innocent. Once the two powers had harmonized, the hellfire turned on Lucifer, creating a massive explosion that could have probably been observed from realms away. The force sent the devil catapulting back to his castle, and as further punishment, his ability to control hellfire had been reaped from him for the time being.

Lucifer stormed over to the contract he had chucked across the room a few minutes ago.

The contract was open, and one of his written terms had been scorched off the paper. 

He remembered the words he had so carelessly scrawled onto the parchment just mere hours ago. 

> _Cannot go beyond the boundaries of the Ninth District._

With those words, the _territorial boundaries_ of the Ninth District were given new purpose. He never clarified that the barrier _couldn't_ be broken with enough force by someone else, and with hellfire being the most powerful force of magic in Hell (much less an explosive amount), _of course_ it had been the one thing that managed to destroy the seal. Now, Alastor and Angel could leave the Ninth District scot-free. It was a loophole that Lucifer had been too proud to consider. 

Thus, the scorch mark across the rule.

However, Lucifer was granted to write another term in its place.

 _He didn't have time for this–_ he briskly walked over to the shimmering globe that rested on a gracious pedestal near the fireplace. With the wave of his hand, the globe became transparent, before showing a perfect image of who he was searching for.

There they were, lying helpless on the filthy ground, but very much alive and without a scratch on them, and they were... twitching... _they were waking up!_

Lucifer pounded his fist on the globe, the image dissipating.

He needed them dead, now more than ever, but without being able to personally be the one to smite Alastor, everything became spontaneously more difficult. It didn't leave him a choice, he had to entrust someone else to do his dirty work. 

Another pressing issue was that the next owner of the contract would not be able to have as much versatility as he had. Lucifer was fairly certain that nobody, except for himself and Alastor, had the power to summon their contracted patron on a whim. That's why even the likes of Valentino couldn't summon his precious porn star with the flick of his wrist (the demon had no magic, but it probably wouldn't have made a difference). Besides Lucifer, Alastor was the most powerful being in Hell. Bringing about his demise had never been easy, and this wasn't going to be any different. 

So much was at stake with Lucifer's decision on how to amend his rule. It was going to either make or break the entire plan.

He needed a term that would ensure that Alastor or the spider didn't get any fancy ideas that they could just pop back home without any repercussions. One that would force them to stay as far away from the hotel as possible, buying whoever he put up to the task as much time as possible to go in for the kill.

Perhaps he could force Angel to stay in one place; as in, he literally could not move from one spot. That would make Alastor unable to go anywhere either. At that rate, anyone could kill them, and if they were still posted anywhere near the Ninth Realm, they'd most likely freeze to death within a day or two.

It was as good a plan as any. Lucifer conjured his golden quill and brought it down to the parchment, but as he wrote, words failed to write. The ink refused to stain the paper. 

The quill slowly began to burn to the point where Lucifer had to stop writing.

Lucifer let out a hiss of pain as he dropped the quill, the stationary poofing out of existence as it hit the floor.

_That never happened before._

With a scowl, Lucifer figured the reason why was that forcing Angel Dust to stay in one place was writing him a death sentence; if nobody came around to finish him off, starvation would kill him, let alone the climate. At the very least, it was a direct harm to the arachnid. 

_This would never have been a damn problem if Alastor wasn't as powerful as he was to begin with–_

Lucifer gasped.

He willed his quill to his hand and brought it to the contract once more and began to scrawl out: 

> _Magical powers granted by Hell are deemed futile within the soul bond (this power cannot be regained, gifted, transferred, or otherwise utilized by another or for another)._

And just like that, the scroll rolled itself up again, fitting pristinely back into the rose tinged envelope and disappearing in a cloud of smoke.

Lucifer was almost surprised to see that he was able to write the rule, as taking away someone's magic was not legal, even for him (he didn't care why, but it probably had something to do with the possibility of unintentionally casting harm on someone or that it was downright impossible since every demon carried Hell's magical essence within them), but he supposed that prohibiting someone from _using_ their powers was an entirely different story. 

This was the best he could do. This bought him as much time as possible, because an Alastor without magic suddenly didn't sound so threatening. With just two lines of ink, Alastor was no longer at the top of the food chain. Rather, he was now swimming towards the bottom. The poor man relied so heavily on his gifts, and now that he was without them, he'd suffer in a way that made Lucifer almost not want to kill him. Without his magic, Alastor was just a man...

But he was a smart man. And Lucifer knew better than to underestimate someone smart. 

The trick to handling someone smart, or anyone for that matter, was to make them as uncomfortable as possible. Lucifer observed through the years that when people are uncomfortable, they do anything in their power to feel comfortable again. 

For instance, Alastor knew how to lay low. And without his magic, it would be harder than ever to track him down. Naturally, the bastard would exploit every possibility to outmaneuver Lucifer and would give him hell until his dying breath.

But without his magic and with a porn star strapped to his hilt, he just needed one little push to send him over the edge.

If his rather awkward situation were to go public, viral even, any form of privacy he had left would be stripped away from him. With the mass knowing that Alastor was relatively powerless now, it was too good of an opportunity to pass up to catch a glimpse of the once all-mighty radio demon, or even claim the title of being the one to vanquish him. It seemed counter-intuitive, but having Alastor constantly on the move was beneficial. The demon knew when to retreat, but if he were under the impression that he couldn't stay in one place for too long, he'd be forced to keep moving, which was something Alastor didn't do. The Radio Demon could never be pushed around, he was in full control at all times. He was so confident in his abilities (that he no longer had), he never even considered what he would do without them.

Lucifer duly noted that Alastor was terrible at improvising, and by God himself was it going to be fun watching the demon be mortified for the first time in a very long while.

Now, Lucifer just needed the right person for the job.

Luckily, he knew just the demon to turn to.

Unfortunately, due to the fact that he himself had little to no magic, he would have to manually travel to where he needed to go, which would take time. But as luck would have it, time was on his side. With Alastor relatively powerless, he would have to try to survive two more realms before reaching the Sixth Realm. 

Before reaching the Ruler of Wonderland, that is. 

* * *

When Angel eventually came to, the first thing he noticed was that the smell of hellfire had, for the most part, faded away.

It had been replaced by another scent, one that was not to the arachnid's taste, but far more delightful. 

It was cologne. Not the expensive kind, but something from a reputable brand that did the job. It reminded him of a silent night at twilight; cedar and herbs wafting through a warm, humid air. 

As Angel's thoughts collected, the familiarity of the fragrance finally hit him, it was Alastor's. 

Angel's eyes rolled up to find the demon precisely four feet, eleven inches away from him, leaning against a wall, a cold and grim expression capitalizing his smile that looked more akin to a snarl.

Angel had a feeling he was going to have to get used to that look–

“Wait a minute,” Angel jolted up vertically.

Angel ran his hands over his body. There was a ghost of pain wherever his hands trailed, but the touch of hellfire was as if it had been a nightmare, the sensation nothing more than a figment of his imagination and not some distant memory (not that Angel was complaining). 

The only clue left behind that confirmed that Lucifer's torment was not some nightmare was the faint scent of hellfire still wafting around him. Otherwise, there were no bruises or burnt fur, no scorched skin or skid marks... he and Alastor looked completely untouched.

“How the fuck are we even alive right now!?”

Alastor didn't answer, instead, opting to look away.

_That was weird._

“The fuck is your deal? Don't know?”

Alastor remained silent.

“Hey,” Angel walked over to the overlord and snapped his fingers in front of his face, “I'm talking to ya, asshole!”

Alastor's head snapped back, fury boiling in his eyes as he caught Angel's wrist, effectively stopping the snapping that was visibly annoying him.

_Something was off._

“What?” Angel sneered, “Ya can't tell me?”

Alastor loved to hear himself talk, the guy had a smart-ass response to everything. Why was he bothering to keep his mouth shut now? He definitely seemed aggravated by his antics (as usual), so where were the dialed pupils? The voodoo symbols? The static in the air? The sound of a radio jarring around him?

It seemed that Alastor sensed what Angel was thinking. He let the spider's wrist go and took a heavy sigh. 

“It would appear that we miscalculated.” 

_What the fuck._

“Holy shit...” Angel breathed before letting out a hearty laugh, “I've never heard your voice without the radio in it! I thought that was your regular voice!”

It was the same exact voice, that desirably entrancing and old-timey Transatlantic accent, but without the radio fuzz surrounding it, it became shockingly orotund in a way that the raucousness of the radio tin could never compete with. 

“It's not,” Alastor replied apathetically with a cock of his head, even though his eyes were sharp with anger, “are you satisfied?”

“Jesus, I don't give a shit.” Angel raised his hands in surrender, “I just wanna know how we survived.”

“We survived because, as it may be, you never harmed Lucifer nor did you ever intend to harm him.”

Realization dawned on Angel as his arms flopped to his sides in a mixture of relief and irritation. 

“I had considered it,” Alastor resumed, stepping closer, “but I also thought that Lucifer had as well. I simply thought that due to the soul-bond, your innocence had become null and void. Why else would he so blatantly attack us?”

“And why the hell is this only occurring to you now!?”

“I don't see why you're so upset, dearie, you should be grateful. At least the thought had occurred to _me.”_

“Hey!” Angel barked, “New's flash, baby, I don't deal with this shit on a daily basis.”

“Oh, and I do?”

“Well, I'd sure think so with you being an overlord and all. I honestly expected more out of ya–”

Alastor raised a hand to strike Angel.

Angel flinched, _hard._

Alastor swung his arm but stopped just as his claws grazed the fur on Angel's cheek.

Granted, knowing Alastor too well for his own good, Angel was definitely asking for it– if the pure vexation blossoming behind his steeled eyes was anything to go by, but there it was again... the absence of his magic... 

“What the fuck ever.” Angel coughed out, pretending that even without the usage of his magic, Alastor was still scary as shit. “Look, I'm guessing Lucifer still has my contract, but can't we at least deal with this shit back at the hotel?”

“No, I'm afraid we cannot.”

“Fuck me gently with a chainsaw– _enough_ with your one-liners! Why the fuck can't ya just snap your fingers and get us back home already!?” 

“Because I don't have any magic you _fucking_ patsy!”

A very unsettling silence befell the two demons.

“Wait, are you serious?”

“My dear, do you not think that we would have been back at the hotel by now if it were in my power?”

Angel wanted to say something, but decided against it; he had nothing to say, and neither did Alastor.

As much as Angel couldn't stand that Alastor's incessant narcissism stemmed from something that had been granted to him through sheer probability, Angel couldn't fault him. He flaunted himself as the best porn star throughout all of Hell, and Alastor prided himself in being the most powerful demon. They both were the best at what they did and had the ego to boot for it.

But suddenly, quite literally overnight, Alastor was no longer the most powerful demon in Hell. 

And as of right now, they really, _really_ needed that magic.

Angel honestly couldn't care less if he had to listen to Alastor ridicule him with his pretentious plethora of vocabulary for the next thousand days if it meant that they could get out of whatever situation awaited them.

Without Alastor's magic to protect them and having no idea what Lucifer's next step would be, they had no means to prepare or protect. They were vulnerable targets wherever they went. Knowing that Lucifer was now unable to kill them should have been much more of a relief, but it only left behind more disturbing questions in its wake.

It was so horrendously _bad_ , that even Alastor was clearly at a loss for words.

Lucifer clearly wasn't finished yet and obviously had a plan, and they had _nothing._

This was the best move the devil could have made. He had signed Angel's death sentence without directly putting him in harm's way. 

“So...” Angel weakly spoke, “what do we do now?”

“We walk. We keep our heads down.”

“Walk?” Angel balked. “We can at least catch a ride–”

“That, my good fellow, is a death contraption. We'd be sitting ducks in the moving vessel as we would be blind to our surroundings.”

Angel scrunched his face, Alastor was right, again. Angel firmly planted his hands on his hips and angrily paced (pathetic as it may be, given the minimal space he had) back and forth, his eyes trailing over the environment. 

“Wait a minute,” he said, stopping in his tracks, “where are we?”

They were no longer in the Ninth District. Instead, they were surrounded by dauntingly tall cavernous walls that were miles high and stretched endlessly into the distance. Looking directly up, Angel could barely make out the sky which was mostly cloaked behind the tops of the canyons. It appeared that they were at the bottom of a maze of trenches. 

Angel's heart skipped a beat.

“The Eighth District, Fraud.” Alastor answered. 

Angel shouldn't have opened his mouth. He knew very well where they were.

“How far away are we from Pentagram City?” Angel asked, trying to stave off the urgency that was building in his lungs.

“It's a bit of a distance.”

“How long is a bit of a distance?”

“Months of travel, and that's by automobile. Since we must travel by foot... it could take up to a year or more.”

_Shit._

Angel anxiously tugged at his hair. “What do you think Lucifer's gonna do now?”

“Send someone else to do his dirty work.” Alastor responded with a bitter snarl.

“Ya really think he'd stoop that low?” 

“He doesn't have a choice.”

Alastor began to walk forwards. 

Angel strode next to him, trying to mind his distance.

The two managed to traverse in silence before Alastor broke the stifling air.

“Seeing as we might be spending quite a while together, if not, all of eternity, I suggest you mollify yourself by telling me what's on your mind.”

There was no fucking way Angel was going to even hint at what was really pestering him, or else he'd never hear the end of it, or even worse, Alastor would try to find _them._

“It's just that we have a hit on us...” Angel supplied, lying through his teeth.

“Oh my, what observational skills you have, my dear!”

Angel digested the other's sardonic tone, his goal was to distract him. “What I mean is that we can't just walk around out in the open and expect people to just ignore us without batting an eye. I mean, I know this is Hell and people wouldn't give a shit about me– although I might get a couple of requests for a fuck or two– but _you?_ You may not have your powers, but ya sure as hell still look like the Radio Demon.”

Alastor raised an eyebrow in consideration. “I see your point, what do you propose?”

“Oh shit! You're asking me?”

Alastor gave Angel a warning glance.

“We need disguises.”

Alastor looked at Angel like he had just said that he was quitting having sex for the rest of his existence.

“Hey,” Angel countered with much more bravery than he intended, “you're powerless and I'm a porn star, we don't have many options, unless you _want_ to walk around looking like _this–”_ Angel gestured to Alastor's outfit, “I mean, you don't have much of a wardrobe, people are gonna recognize ya from miles away–”

A hauntingly familiar, deafening clap of thunder rippled throughout the sky, causing the sides of the trenches to groan and tremble, slabs of stone sliding off and falling onto the ground with a dangerous crack.

Alastor and Angel whirled around to where the thunder originated from.

“I thought the Ninth District's weather was behind us.”

“It is.” Alastor stated, but seeds of doubt was evident in his tense stance.

“I thought that each attribute of each realm _stayed_ within their boundaries.”

“They do.”

“Then what the fuck was that?”

“How disappointing...” Alastor mused, “the very first noteworthy and entertaining event in the Ninth District and I don't have the means to produce a broadcast about it!” 

“I would say be my guest if ya wanna stick around and fancy yourself with a weather forecast, but since we're wanted men, I think we should get the fuck outta dodge.”

With an dissatisfied sniff and shrug of his shoulders, Alastor twirled around and proceeded to walk away. “Fair enough.”

Angel quickly caught up to the overlord. “So the fact that the Ninth District's weather is coming over to this realm doesn't worry you?”

“Is it a concern to you if it doesn't?”

 _Well, at least his cheeky comments were back_. Angel huffed, “No, but I can't help but feel that's on us.”

“You mean it's on _Lucifer.”_

“Yeah, yeah... whatever.” Angel waved him off, because _that wasn't the fucking point._

They were approximately a whole year's journey away from Pentagram City. He was tethered to this ass-hat of an overlord and wouldn't even be able to catch a fucking break no matter how badly he would need it. The goddamn _Devil_ was fixated on having them roast in his fireplace at any cost, and they were utterly powerless against all of it. It was one thing when Alastor had his magic and they had a _sliver_ of a fighting chance, but now, all they could do was prevent the inevitable. They would go down fighting; and by fighting, Angel meant that they would scurry like rats, trying to hide until they finally got caught in a trap.

 _What was the point?_ They were living on borrowed time. It was inconceivable to believe that by the end of the day or week (if they were fortunate enough) that they weren't going to end up as a floating conscious in a sea of darkness, basking in an eternity of madness and pain. 

“Smile, my dear!” Alastor piped up, taking note of the spider's solemn expression. “You're never fully dressed without one!”

“How the fuck can you say that?” Angel exclaimed with pained exasperation, “Aren't you a little phased that you don't have your powers? Don't you realize that we're going to die?”

“Precisely, and I'd like to spend my last few days not wallowing in self-pity. Besides, I still have a few tricks up my sleeve.”

Angel let out a disproving tisk and looked away, muttering to himself. 

In truth, Alastor was insanely jarred by his loss of powers.

Every breath felt labored, and each step felt like he was falling. He knew that it was something he was going to have to adapt to, he just missed his magic more than he thought was possible. In all his years, he was knowledgeable that his powers were not to be taken for granted, but with his seemingly unyielding supply of it, it was impossible to not have it become a form of a crutch... and it was only going to get harder the more he pressed on as he took into account how much magic he used on a daily basis on a multitude of mundane tasks. He'd have to resort back to some old habits he hadn't touched in decades...

Alastor was out of his depth. It was a horrifying prospect, but he needed the arachnid by his side. He needed _someone_ by his side. He needed someone in order to stay strong, so that he didn't allow himself to let his smile falter for even a moment. 

Because he was Alastor the Radio Demon, as long as he wore a smile, nothing could hurt him where it mattered.

“What sort of tricks?”

“Pardon?”

“You said ya had tricks up your sleeve still, what kind?”

Angel took note how Alastor's smile relaxed into something more genuine before he spoke, “I have no means to test this theory just yet, but before I died, I dabbled in the art of voodoo magic.”

Alastor felt a stroke of delight upon seeing Angel's face light up with hope. 

“Ya think that'll work right now?”

“I sense that Lucifer has stripped me of my demon powers... but perhaps he hasn't restrained me from all manners of magic. Voodoo was something I practiced and honed when I was _alive,_ it's not one of my demon powers.”

Angel smirked, “Now that's a fucking loophole.”

“Indeed it is,” Alastor replied with equal lightheartedness in his tone. “However, I require supplies in order to perform such magic.”

“Where can we get some?”

“The Forest Region of the Seventh Realm.”

“Hey, that's not too far off!” 

Alastor hummed in agreement.

“We'll pick up some cover along the way,” Angel said with a wink. 

Alastor rolled his eyes, but a gentle smile resting on his face, feeling content for the time being.

...Knowing the spider, Alastor should have prepared for the worst.

He didn't react quickly enough upon feeling a rod of cold steel being jammed into the back of his skull. 

He was out before he hit the ground.

* * *

Angel couldn't believe that he had allowed him to sneak up on them.

Alastor had that ability, with or without magic, to fully entrap one's attention.

“Al!” Angel cried out as he saw the demon crumple to the floor a beat after hearing the sound of a sickening _crack_ against bone. 

“Don't fucking move or I'll pop your brains out.”

“Come on, let's talk about this...”

“What the fuck did I say?”

“For fuck's sake, Arackniss, don't be such a dick–”

“Papa said to never come back around these parts.”

“And if you'd kindly stop aiming your fucking gun at the back of my head, I'll gladly be on my way.”

“No chance in hell, fratello. Now that you're here, you're coming home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (So I lied, this chapter is even worst than last.)  
> Three additional unplanned weeks later due to having to swap out half of the chapter because of context, and this is the shit I come up with.  
> Regardless, I really appreciate your comments and the amazing support, it always warms my heart.  
> Hope you all are staying safe!


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